


And Won The Soul's Rest

by concernedlily



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-10
Updated: 2008-06-10
Packaged: 2017-10-18 16:14:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/190735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/concernedlily/pseuds/concernedlily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam of Winchester entered the Abbey five years ago. Now, his brother has come to get him out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Won The Soul's Rest

**Author's Note:**

> First, thanks to wendy and audrarose for pulling this thing together! Thank you for the great summer I'm about to have.
> 
> Grateful thanks to soupytwist and catdancerz for sterling beta work.
> 
> And last but certainly not least, thank you to glockgal and reallycorking: it's been a joy to work with two such talented artists and get art that so beautifully captures not only these characters I love, but the places as well. Thanks also to glockgal for supplying server space for the art.

In your youth you reared sorrow. Coming joy has deceived you of that. You have fought and won the soul's rest.  
'Parzival', Wolfram von Eschenbach

 

The demon sent Sam of Winchester a dream of his brother, through the thick stone walls of the abbey, before he sent the man himself, riding through the gate while the brothers were at dinner.

“Samuel,” said the prior, descending upon him. The assembled brothers stirred and sent quick, gossiping hand signals around the room: mealtimes were conducted in silence, the better to listen to the lector droning out a sermon out from the corner platform, but nevertheless the monks were proficient at communicating. The prior sent a glare travelling generally around the room and everyone bent their heads once more to their fish.

Sam hurried out of the abbey and gardens, turning out of the gate towards the city walls. It wasn't quite dark yet but the moon already shone dimly in the softly blackening sky. He skirted the side of the abbot's manor house, low and sprawling in heavy Yorkshire stone, before walking through the gates, slowing into the calm tread the abbot preferred. The air smelled mulched and autumnal-sweet. He crossed the courtyard and was admitted into the abbot's private office.

Thomas, Abbot of St. Mary's this last year, was waiting for him, hands folded into the lap of his robes, a warm woollen stole draped over his shoulders. Sam was fond of the abbot, who had been kind to him, and it saddened him to see the man closely, aged and visibly tired, although his gaze was still direct and shrewd.

“Samuel,” the abbot said. His voice was harsh, almost a caw: the gossips had him caught by disease as a child; the crueller had it the great sickness of the mid-century, and the child Thomas' voice worn out shouting for rescue from the nailed-up doors of his family's deathbeds. Sam liked the abbot, and did not attend to rumour; he knew of worse things that happened to children than mere organic death. Without waiting for an acknowledgement, the abbot went on quietly, “Your brother is here. He asks to see you.”

Sam stared at the smooth wooden table which held the abbey's most important documents and the abbot's own particular writing materials. The room had the comforting familiar scent of lambskin prepared and powdered for writing: the abbot had been on of the finest copyists in the abbey, as a brother, and examples of his fine, controlled hand were still much admired in the bookroom where Sam spent most of his day. That smell helped him to keep a calm countenance as he turned the abbot's words over in his head. He'd had no wish to see Dean here, his boisterous demanding presence shattering Sam's refuge, and yet: it had been well-nigh four years, and Sam did want to see his brother.

“Am I permitted to see him?” he asked.

The abbot sighed. “He claims to be here on a matter of some urgency. You may see him here in the manor, tomorrow, at Nones. He has taken lodgings in the town.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Sam said, and took his leave. He felt numb.

What could Dean want? 'A matter of some urgency', but Dean had approached the abbot, not attempted to see Sam directly as had once been his first thought. The idea came to him that perhaps Dean felt he might not be welcomed by his only brother. It was a small thought, and it hurt.

That night he padded out of the dormitory and stole down the dark corridors. The abbey could be intimidating at night, the cold yawning space of it turning strangers away, but Sam was used to the night and St. Mary's was his home. He was used to escaping it, and by now he knew how to escape the consequences. He slipped out of the heavy wooden kitchen door without incident, drawing his scratchy robe around himself more closely to keep out the damp chill of the vale.

He crossed the park quickly, the grass soft and already damp beneath his feet, and stepped outside the gates. The abbey was outside the city walls but Sam was still fit and strong, and one man was able to scramble over them without too much difficulty. He landed lightly onto Deangate and navigated his way around the array of building detritus. The Minster flaunted itself above the city, commanding the horizon with lofty, graceful pride, the spires and tower rising over Sam as he hurried across the last few yards to the western door and entered the transept.

In darkness, the Minster might have been complete, the grand bishop's seat already installed. The interior pressed expectantly around Sam, diminishing him with penitence within the Lord's house. The Minster was all space at night, the elegant life of the stone-mason's craft hidden in the black reaches of the ceiling's arch.

Sam moved to the wide nave, waiting for the altar. It was wrong of him: this was not a sacred place, not yet, and it was not fitting of him to worship here; it was not fitting that he wanted to. But he liked space around himself, he liked to hear what was coming up around him, and the unused Minster, populated with builders by day and no other at night, felt like a space of his own.

He stayed for some hours, until he had to return for early Mass, cold leaching gently through his skin, and prayed for understanding.

* * *

“You look well, brother,” Dean said awkwardly. He was staring at Sam with a confused recognition, almost pained, seemingly unable to look away. Sam knew the look was mirrored on his own face as he ran his gaze over his brother again and again, looking for the changes, searching underneath them for his brother. Dean had a shine in his eyes and a straightness to his back that Sam knew, the exaggerated physical rigidity that meant Dean was underfed and underslept. But he was unscarred where Sam could see, and he moved with a wiry strength and confidence in his body. They were some distance from each other still – Dean had almost stepped forward, his fingers betraying him with a twitch, Sam had almost gone to meet him, and the brother in the room with them had coughed and turned his attention ostentatiously to his psalter – but Sam realised, with a jolt of shock and unfamiliarity, that back-to-back he himself would be the taller, and Dean the one with something to look up to.

“Thank you. You, too,” he said. His voice sounded scratchy even to himself – Winchester volume was a sudden temptation unknown in the calm confines of the abbey – and he caught Dean shooting an accusing look at the other monk, Marcus. Sam felt absurdly protective and then more absurdly grateful; he wasn't the same, and he wanted Dean to know that, but he wanted his brother to miss the Sam that had been.

“I need to talk to you,” Dean said. He put his hands behind his back, almost convulsively.

“Yes?” Sam said, puzzled. It was unlike Dean to be cautious; unlike him to try to hide his feelings.

“To you,” Dean said, with what he perhaps imagined was subtlety.

“He has to stay,” Sam hissed, feeling himself reddening. Already: he'd so hoped to be able to meet with his brother as equals, insomuch as a monk and a knight could match one another, to show Dean that he had position and respect enough in his chosen life to make up for the things he'd walked away from. But Dean was like their father. He wouldn't keep to rules not his own, never made allowances for authorities and lives other than that of their father.

“It's our father,” Dean said quietly, and he made a tiny signal at his hip, the one which meant other things were under discussion than the church would recognise.

Sam swallowed hard, resisted the urge to twist his fingers together under the thick material of his robes. He was a brother of the Benedictines: he was not controlled by his physical impulses, and he would not be controlled by his family. He lowered his voice. “Dean...”

“He's missing,” Dean said, and Sam couldn't bear the level of anguish and fear in his tone. “He's missing, Sammy. I need you to help me find him.”

“I can't leave here!” Sam said. He glanced at the other monk, and shifted around slightly, Dean copying him until they were more aligned along their sides, their shoulders tilted to muffle their speech to an outsider. Sam hated it; it made him feel a conspirator, when he had sworn honesty and obedience, and for a moment he resented Dean for bringing with him the part of Sam that did such things without thought. His brother smelled of leather and ale and horse, and the familiarity grabbed Sam by the throat after so many years without it. “You know I can't.”

“Why not?” Dean said, and Sam saw with dread that the question was entirely without guile, that Dean really did not see why Sam might not abandon everything to go with him.

“I took vows,” Sam said. “And you, Dean? Are you not paid into someone's service?” Their family had no land, had nothing but native wit and hard work to recommend them, and yet still Dean and their father preferred tricking and petty crime, and blood work if there was nothing else. Dean was wearing insignia Sam didn't recognise, and if their father had gone missing it might well have been on campaign.

“It's _Father_ ,” Dean said simply.

“You have deserted a lord?” Sam said, feeling sick to himself. It was common, of course it was, but if he were found-

“One among many,” Dean said impatiently. “Father wasn't – he survived, I know he did. But he didn't come _back_.”

“He often doesn't,” Sam snapped. “You forget easily, Dean.” He held his brother's gaze, remembering the weeks, months sometimes, the two of them alone and unprotected after the armies came home, John of Winchester nowhere among them.

“He's in trouble, I can feel it,” Dean said desperately. He sounded pained, near to broken, when he said, “Sam. I can't do this alone.”

“You can,” Sam said, and he couldn't meet his brother's eyes. “You must.”

He didn't say he was sorry, although he was. He only turned and fled, listening to the other monk's steps following him from the room more sedately, hearing his brother call his name.

* * *

He was not excused work, nor prayers, nor mealtimes, but he huddled over the manuscript he was lettering until the brother in charge frowned and shooed him away to the autumn-bare gardens, and he picked at his food until the lictor removed it with a ferocious glare. He was at peace only at prayer, and he shut his eyes tightly and let the soft recitation of the rosary fall from his lips as his mind begged only for relief from sadness.

Brendan caught him as he trudged away from the church, resisting the urge to scrub at his eyes like a child. He'd prayed for his family's happiness, and a night without dreams: it was the sort of prayer that went unanswered, in his experience.

“Did you see your brother?” Brendan asked, his voice barely more than a murmur. Sam shifted and thought; he could pretend he hadn't heard, perhaps; he could say Dean had wanted nothing worth discussing. But part of him rebelled at that – that part that was Brendan's protege and Dean's small brother, and frightened by so many things.

“He says that our father is missing,” he said quietly. The monks were thronging around them on their way to the refectory, and both he and Brendan fell by habit into a slower pace that would allow them to snatch some small moments of conversation as they moved from the front of the crowd to the back. “Dean wanted – he would like for me to go with him, to find our father together.”

“You refused?” Brendan said, and Sam was surprised to see a frown marr the usual placidity of his expression.

“Of course,” Sam said. “What else? I can't leave. Certainly not to, to chase around stinking battlefields for a likely corpse.”

“You believe him to be dead, then,” Brendan said doubtfully, and Sam could only shake his head, face tilted down, ashamed of his hasty words. He didn't want his father dead, and not only for Dean's sake. Brendan scrutinised him for a moment, his little feet tapping smartly along the floor as they followed the rest of the brothers, trying to make their conversation discreet. “No, not dead. And your dreams? You told him of your dreams?”

“ _No_ ,” Sam said, and he couldn't help a look of betrayal at Brendan's folly, mentioning the dreams where they could be so easily overheard. Brendan took Sam's confession, so he had had to know, had had to hear of the fire and blood and death Sam saw. He had been kind, Sam thought with a stiffening dread; seeing Dean once again had reminded him that nobody was kind, not to Winchesters. And he had trusted Brendan, given him testimony of the demons that touched Sam-

“We are late, I think,” he said abruptly, and rushed to the safety of the mass of monks just ahead. They smelled of incense from the service just completed, the familiar musky sourness of male bodies, of the dormitory: they smelled, to Sam, of sacred things, and he closed his eyes and fingered the rosary in his pocket as the group bore him into the refectory.

He worried at it in his mind for the rest of the evening, in the silence while the monks bent over their food, and then in the quiet heaviness of the night, he and the brothers abed. And so when he smelled smoke, heard the intimate crackle of hellfire, he took it first for a dream, until he heard the yells; only the demon with yellow eyes made a sound, in his dreams.

Of course stone did not burn but as Sam forced his eyes open into the foul grey smoke he could see that the inferno behaved not as normal fire, was stretching out eager licks of flame between the pallets, catching on straw and robes, and he had barely enough time to register the beds next to his rise as pyres while his own remained intact before there was a body on his. He retained enough instinct in his body for it to recognise _brother_ by smell and shape, and as Dean dragged him away he clung and hid his face, as if he were still a child.

* * *

“I know it wasn't you,” he said dully.

“Wasn't me set fire to a building with my own brother inside, thanks a fucking lot,” Dean muttered; he was scowling ferociously, under the smudges of ash that spotted his face and clothing, but his hands were gentle as he passed them over Sam's body where he was propped against the city walls, checking for damage. “Can you walk, Sammy?”

“I can walk,” Sam said, with ponderous dignity; it suddenly seemed very important to keep that. He hadn't had much else anyway, as a monk: only the work he'd loved and the people he'd respected, but those were lost to him now in any case. He had meant only that it wasn't Dean's fault. Of course it wouldn't be coincidence, Dean's appearance and the demon taking action; but it wasn't _Dean's_ fault. Brendan was dead, almost certainly, the most acrid smoke rising from the dormitory where he slept, with the central tower of the Minster for scenery: Sam had been wrong to doubt him, as well.

“Do we need to leave now?” Dean said urgently. He pulled Sam up, threw his own cloak around Sam's shoulders to hide the smoky cowl.

Sam looked at him, his narrowed eyes as he calculated how to get himself and Sam away, the protective slant of his body towards Sam's, and he felt an almost tearful gratitude that Dean would still think of them as _them_ , was still ready to take Sam's problems on his own shoulders, never to complain.

“I should think we have the night,” he said instead, and allowed Dean to lead him down Low Petergate, towards some of the city's more disreputable lodgings.

Much of the city, all of it that was awake as a norm at the late hour, had drifted to the Minster yard for the best, safest view of the burning monastery, and the aldermen and soberer whoremongers had begun to organise a water chain. They nudged and chattered as if the glow that allowed them to see each other were normal daylight. Sam wanted to shout, wanted to rage, but the Abbey was a landowner in these parts, no real friend to those who did not require its charity, and its pains were only spectacle, pretend like the fire-painted carts that acted hell in the Mystery cycle the Guilds ran every year. Fire was not uncommon. Neither was death, even of clergy.

Dean seemed heedless, and Sam realised he probably was: not to their surroundings, the threat they might offer to Sam, never that. But the workings of a community – the tiny tired gossip that wound up daily life of a city like York – that was not his, neither by upbringing nor inclination. He guided Sam past everything, keeping them to the shadows cast readily by the precarious overhangs of the upper floors, and slipped them into the back stairs of a tavern and up to a cramped, cold chamber.

Sam barely noticed the emptiness: he focused straight onto the bed, low and infested-looking as it was, weariness and sorrow sweeping intertwined through him.

“You're all right,” Dean murmured, and Sam was surprised to feel Dean's hands coaxing the cloak and ruined habit away from him, surprised to find himself being wrapped in a soft woollen blanket and persuaded over to the bed. He lay down and buried his head against the rough jerkin Dean had evidently used for a pillow. His eyes felt scratchy and sore, and he was afraid that if he shut them Dean would burn to ash, silently and rapidly, and leave Sam alone. He put his hand onto the floor, as if he were a boy too far gone in wine, and held his breath until Dean understood the signal and sat on the floor beside his head, facing the door, and put one hand in Sam's hair and the other on the gleaming steel broadsword lying naked at his side.

Sam slept longer and harder than he intended, and thankfully dreamless. The fire seemed to have lit a spark of the fierce humours within him: he woke and instantly searched for Dean, needing no time to recollect the changes the previous night had wrought. Dean's head had fallen back and he was breathing with a slow whistle; only dozing, and he came alert as soon as Sam moved.

“Sam?” he said, looking for Sam as instinctively as Sam had looked for him. His voice was rough with smoke.

“Yes,” Sam answered, his own voice holding much the same tone. He abruptly wished to turn over, curl back down into the warm sheets and let things disappear for a while; he felt that Dean would let him, and that had him throwing off the bed linens decisively. There was a basin in the corner, full of not-quite clean water. He splashed his face regardless, drank from the skin of fresh water Dean was wordlessly holding out when he looked up, busied himself in rearranging his sleep-rumpled clothes.

“We need to think about our next step,” Dean said quietly, when Sam was finished. He was sitting on the bed, full of stillness and regret; he had waited until Sam's back was to him, and Sam hunched a little further into himself, like it was a physical blow.

“I need to know the damage,” he said finally, when all the hurt his voice would show was the smoke. “There may have been deaths, Dean, I need to know. They were my-” but he couldn't say _brothers_ , not to Dean; there was no need to be cruel. “My colleagues, my friends.”

“They're in Paradise,” Dean said. The words were thick and stupid on his tongue, but Sam took it for the awkward comfort he knew was intended.

“We need only go into the city,” he said. He tried to tell himself it was for Dean: Sam ought to return to the Abbey, see the consequences for himself; he didn't want to. “There will be talk enough there.”

“Into the city,” Dean agreed, relief palpable in his tone, and Sam hated the gladness he felt within himself, that Dean still wanted Sam with him, was prepared to have him back. Perhaps he could even admit everything to Dean, the dreams, his fears – but not in the city, not when he was still so afraid that it might have been his dreams, himself, that had caused it. He should want Dean to care; it imperilled Dean's soul, that he would side with Sam over anything, against everything, but with Sam's own soul perhaps already being weighed for judgement, he could not bring himself to spare concern over the gratitude.

“Perhaps, if they didn't notice my absence in the bustle,” Sam said, leaving the words hanging. There was no way, of course: it was a grave offense, to abscond from the order, and he might well be expelled for it. But he needed to hear the possibility aloud, to let it go.

Dean put a hand on the back of his neck, a warm steady comfort after years without physical closeness, and offered Sam a hunk of dry bread and cheese with the other. All the food he had, Sam knew. He accepted it, and followed his brother down the narrow staircase and into the street.

* * *

The Black Swan was crowded and as noisy with chatter as Sam could have hoped. He allowed Dean to tuck him into a corner of the snug and squash in next to him, shielding him from notice of his soft reader's hands and shorn head, razed carefully to stubble that morning by Dean, to hide the characteristic monastic style. He could grow it, now, he thought, and it gave him a shameful little feeling of gladness.

Dean procured drinks for them, cheap, rough red wine mixed with water that felt harsh on Sam's smoke-abraded throat. His head hurt dully and he twisted his fingers in his lap, letting Dean listen to the conversations hum around them for news. The serving girl brought bowls of stew, gobbets of fatty meat swimming with hard root vegetables in a thin greyish gruel, and slammed down pots of ale next to them, slopping it over the sides and making Dean mutter and complain. Sam picked up his spoon without enthusiasm; next to him, Dean ate with a steady single-minded rhythm, filling his belly while all his concentration spread over the chatterers around them.

It took only minutes for Dean to nudge him, and Sam leaned forward, casually, resting his chin on his hands, and focused on the small merchant group sitting in front of them.

“It's judgement, isn't it?” One man said. His clothes were of a fine linen, and dyed an even, subdued red, but they were stained and the man's hair was tangled and greasy. “Stands to reason, a big abbey like that, s'under the Lord's protection, wouldn't happen if it were right-”

“Church runs on good beeswax,” another broke in. “Place was probably lit up like Midsummer, and prices to honest folk rising like-” The third man hushed his friends, looking around with a hunted expression. The speakers were deep in their cups, Sam could see, and he didn't want any man to give them cause to regret their rash opinions.

“Only one dead,” the cautious man said. “Judgement's closed, and you two gibbering like fools is like only to bring it down on you.” His voice was forbidding, and after a short, sullen silence the conversation resumed along the lines of beef prices in the south of England.

Sam sat back slowly, feeling Dean's careful gaze on him. One dead; he didn't want to talk about it..

“Where were you?” Sam said. “You didn't come straight from the battlefield, I presume.” He picked listlessly at his stew, and took a swig of ale to mask a taste that was suspiciously close to rotten. He had ideals about the monastery, and he had meant his vow of poverty in earnest, but on the rare occasions he ate outside the abbey he was reminded that their holdings were wealthy; the food had been simple but good, better in quality and taste than anything Dean could afford for them.

“I came out of the Wirral,” Dean said, sounding guilty but smug, and Sam shot him a half-hearted glare, sparing a thanks that Dean was letting him change the subject. The Wirral was a thicketed haunt of cutpurses, murderers and brigands; it was nothing to boast of, to be thought equal to such people.

“Dean,” he said reprovingly. He wracked his brains for a sermon he'd heard that would be appropriate – not the whole thing, Dean had always fidgeted even through the shortest Mass – but there must be some small wisdom he could give his brother.

“Don't lecture,” Dean said defensively. “I was looking for our father, I visited Robert the singer.”

Sam rolled his eyes but subsided. Nobody had ever heard Robert the singer do anything approaching minstrelsy, and Sam was quite sure nobody had ever cared to. The man had contacts amongst all the scoundrels of the kingdom but he himself was at least steady and held to a morality of sorts.

“And what did he say?” he asked. He signalled the serving girl for more ale and she gave a brief nod in his direction.

“He thinks our father may have been mixed up in something interesting,” Dean said, uncharacteristically quiet. “He hasn't seen him, and he last heard of him being in London.”

Sam shuddered. He disliked London; they'd gone through several times as children, John searching for work or information or a new paymaster. Sam hated the noise, the dirt, the thick press of strange, inescapable humanity. Dean had always enjoyed spending time there. He didn't bother to mask his reaction; Dean's gaze held a guarded sympathy, over his own swiftly-emptying mug.

“London, then,” he said grimly.

“If you feel we ought to stay longer-” Dean offered, awkwardly.

Sam shook his head, the decision only made as Dean allowed the option. He couldn't return to the abbey; he had brought enough darkness down upon them. He could only run, now. Winchesters were good at running. He could only pray they could run far enough, together, for Sam to keep its attention from Dean. Whatever strength he had had four years ago failed him: the thought of leaving his brother again made Sam tired and heartsick, and he couldn't bring himself to seriously consider it.

“What for?” he asked heavily. Dean looked away and called the serving girl over to fill their wineskins.

* * *

It was many years since Sam had been on a horse, and the moment he resumed the practice he remembered grimly why that was.

“Are you all right?” Dean said doubtfully. He guided Sophia over to where Sam was seated awkwardly on an ill-tempered bay, the only horseflesh the trader had been able to provide for Sam's long legs. Sophia, the grey mare Dean had tended from a foal, had remembered Sam and greeted him with a pleasured whicker that had made quite a difference from the angry rumblings of Sam's mount. She turned her head to watch patiently as Dean leaned over in his saddle and pulled at Sam's stirrups, frowning. “Sam, your seat is awful, no wonder he's unhappy – shift your weight back, loosen up on the rein-”

“I'm _fine_ ,” Sam bit out and the horse shifted under him uneasily and danced towards Dean, making Sophia snort and sidle away. Sam reined back and set his legs more firmly along the horse's sides, and it dropped its head and settled beneath him. “See-” he said, twisting to show Dean and the horse bolted, landing Sam unceremoniously on the sparse grass of the field.

“Sam!” Dean cried, and Sam had to fend him off to struggle up and brush himself off. The horse had stopped at the other end of the field and was watching them mutinously. Sam shook off Dean's hands and tramped dourly after it.

“It's a long damned way to London!” Dean shouted behind him. Sam ignored him and started the slow process of convincing his grass-cropping mount he was its master.

It was more hours than Sam cared to contemplate before he and the horse came to any kind of rapprochement, and both Sam and the horse were sullen and peevish by the time it would tolerate Sam's presence on its back for any kind of time.

“Shall we go, then?” Sam said, standing over his dozing brother. Sam had taken long enough for Dean to be able to return to the city and equip them with a small supply of food, as well as the blankets, utensils and saddlebags to carry them all that Sam would need. Part of Sam wanted to return to York one last time, take it for his memory, but the bigger part was past ready to put his back to it.

“Now?” Dean said. He stood up, squinting pointedly at the dropping sun, and put his hand out absently; Sophia trotted over from where she had been cropping grass and stood close enough for Dean to lean on. Sam sneaked a look back at his resentful horse and sighed inwardly. Dean went on carefully, “I thought we'd go in the morning. One last night, you know.”

“No,” Sam said shortly. “I don't see any point in lingering. We can put down several miles before nightfall.”

Dean looked at the bay doubtfully and Sam set his face into a stubborn scowl. “If you're sure,” he said, then ventured, “do you want to ride Sophia? Just to start.”

“My whole life, you've never let me on Sophia,” Sam said in amazement. It was true that when they'd been much younger, and far lighter, he and Dean had shared their horses, Dean's arms reassuringly enclosing Sam as he perched in front. But they'd grown, and Dean had turned into a talented horseman, able to hold warhorses with easy confidence, while Sam saw his own horse as a mysterious and rather inconvenient creature.

“Well,” Dean said; he looked embarrassed.

“I appreciate you're trying to take care of me,” Sam said awkwardly. Dean looked with earnest attention at the ground. “But I'm fine, really.”

Dean nodded and they arranged the new saddlebags on the horse, which stood with a superior and scornful air. Sam fought not to stare over his shoulder as they left the field. They were at the outskirts of the city, the unfinished spire of the Minster only just visible; he couldn't see anything by looking back.

The workday was finished and the tenants were trudging back to their homes along the track as Sam and Dean led the horses slowly in the other direction. Sam's horse danced nervously, unused to the weight of his gear, and at a nod from Dean Sam fell back so he could see and follow Sophia, who barely needed Dean's light touch on her rein.

He was sufficiently distracted by the horse not to notice the man until he was already upon Sam with foully grasping hands, the stench of him thick with old sweat and meat. Surprised, Sam stifled a cry and fell back against the horse, who squealed and darted into the hedgerow, leaving Sam to stumble and fall into the man, feeling hands dart over him while he tried to push him off.

“Let me tell you, sir,” the man gabbled. “Let old Simon tell you the future, the sad future-”

Sam slowed and the man pushed up against him. His eyes were mad but they glittered in his grimy face with a look Sam had seen before; seen before on himself, and for a bare moment he stopped trying to grapple for his freedom.

“Such loss,” the man said with sick glee. “Terrible things, sir, I warn you, he'll take everything away, oh, he will – what have you got, sir -”

The man was wrenched away and Sam saw him sprawl into the dirt behind Sophia's bulk as Dean filled the space in front of Sam's vision. For a moment he searched frantically for the old soothsayer, desperate to hear more, but by the time Dean had reassured himself Sam wasn't physically harmed and went to coax the bay from the verge, the man was gone.

“What the fuck just happened?” Dean demanded. Sam turned his face into Sophia's neck for a second, inhaling the comforting familiar horse-smell.

“Nothing,” he said. His voice sounded weak to himself and he repeated. “Nothing. He was, he was crazy, that's all.”

Dean paused and said, “Why? What did he say?”

Sam ran his memory back over the short scene. He remembered the words well, but what could he say to Dean? He couldn't manage to make anything up before Dean would become suspicious. “No, he was mad, as I said,” he said, trying to keep his tone even. “He talked of things going away.”

There was a short silence. Dean stared at him levelly and said, “Check your purse, Sam.”

Sam looked at him, and then fumbled for the purse hanging from his belt with clumsy fingers. The first thing he felt when he realised it was gone was relief, and he tried to hide it from Dean.

“There it is,” Dean said, with heavily sarcastic wisdom. The loss wasn't great, as Dean was carrying the bulk of their funds, but the gaze he rested on Sam was worried and impatient. “You're going to have to do a lot better than that, little brother.”

“I know,” Sam said, trying to look as if it was the theft that unnerved him, and not the words. Perhaps it had only been a ruse, a clever act by a common cutpurse, but there had been a truth in the man's eyes Sam was afraid he couldn't afford to ignore. “I will.”

* * *

It _was_ a long way to London. Dean preferred to set up make-shift camps rather than stay at the welcoming, crowded travellers' inns. They bartered for half their food and hunted for the rest, Dean patiently guiding Sam's clumsy rein-numb hands back to the skills of bow and arrow, slingshot and blade. Soon Sam's hands began to develop the callouses and roughness of a freemen, and he didn't dare admit to Dean that he missed their scholarly softness.

Sam's whole being ached dully, all day and every day, but the life came back to his body more easily than it did his head. The forgotten exertions wore him early to his bedroll for hard, dreamless sleep – just as Dean intended, Sam had no doubt. But he clung to the vestiges of the man he had sometimes glimpsed in his future and prayed so desperately to become, and though he joined readily enough with the riding and activities that kept them driving forward on the hard road to London, he couldn't fall further back into Dean's – Dean's and their father's – life, despite Dean's jibes and the worry that underlaid them.

That was what their first fight was about, when it came, not before Sam had expected it. They were getting used to each other but it was awkward, too formal for the easy fraternity that had once marked their relationship. Sam knew Dean was trying to give him space, pushing down his own instinct to keep Sam sheltered and safe, and he made a reciprocal effort to allow Dean the changes four years apart had wrought, and to be patient when Dean made a poor show of hiding his affront at the changes in Sam. He loved Dean as his brother, fiercely and helplessly; but he didn't quite love the near-stranger Dean was now, not yet. Unspoken, they took up the habit of parting for some small time in the evening, and although they remained just in earshot Sam could take the quiet and privacy to pray, to order himself and his thoughts and his love for God, as he'd been taught in the abbey.

He assumed that Dean did something similar, until Dean announced differently.

It was the surprise that annoyed Sam most, as Dean asked, “But why would I?” in a tone that betrayed real puzzlement and even amusement.

“Why _would_ you?” Sam repeated. “Why – Dean, you don't attend Mass, you don't confess, I understand those, I don't approve but I understand, but you don't even pray?”

“No,” Dean said in a tone of carefully elaborate disinterest. “Why, Sammy, you've been praying?”

“Of course,” Sam said. “I'm – I'm a monk, Dean, of course I pray.”

“You _were_ a monk,” Dean corrected, and Sam couldn't help a flinch: it was the most careless Dean had yet been about Sam's lost vocation, but it was that that told him that the conversation was affecting Dean, so he pressed on.

“I am still,” he said. “In my heart.”

“I'm sure God's pleased about that,” Dean said shortly.

“Don't speak so,” Sam said. “It's blasphemous. It makes me feel better, Dean, it makes me part of something – you don't do anything? Ever?” He didn't mention what he'd been praying for lately, his need for forgiveness, for peace; for the demon to leave him be. He would not make those things that Dean had to accept.

“Don't really see the point,” Dean said.

“You used to pray,” Sam said softly.

“Yes, well,” Dean said stonily. He didn't look at Sam. “I stopped.” He nudged at Sophia's flanks and she broke into an obliging canter, taking him away from Sam.

Sam didn't know how to break the silence later, as Dean cooked rabbit on strips over a low fire, so he didn't, instead regarding his brother covertly as he whittled wood for arrows. Was it his own imagination that deepened the creases around Dean's eyes, since the moment he'd laid them upon Sam again? Dean fit, somehow, against the sunset glimmering through the hedgerows, and it made Sam feel like baggage. Dean moved silently, slipping along path and forest as if it were his natural habitat, as if the stone and cultivated lawns of Winchester Castle had never rung with their steps. It made Sam feel clumsy, resentful of being too-large, just as in their childhood when John had praised Dean's abilities in the natural world and only used Sam's in civilisation and conversation and the soft, tedious mores of their social betters.

“We're nearing London,” Dean said. “Another week, maybe. I think it might be a good idea to go in, just for a while. See what's happening. See if Father left any trace there.”

“Is Father James still there?” Sam asked, remembering their father's old friend, the priest who had taught Sam his first real Scripture, who had later been the first to guide Sam to his vocation. For younger sons to go to the priesthood was not unusual, although it had not been part of John Winchester's intentions.

“As far as I know,” Dean said. “Retired, I think.”

“I'd like to see him again,” Sam said quietly. Dean looked at him, seemingly on the brink of speaking. Sam raised an eyebrow at him, and he shook his head and offered Sam the tenderest portions of meat.

* * *

The air of expectancy still seemed to hang around Dean and Sam wasn't surprised when, two nights later, Dean spoke into the darkness, from the other side of the dying embers of their cookfire.

“Did you like it?” he said. “The Abbey. Being at the Abbey.”

Sam turned onto his back and considered it. He hadn't expected Dean to ask, really, not when Dean had previously made a show of his lack of interest.

“Yes,” he said, honestly. He was tired, but if this was when Dean wanted to talk, Sam could talk. “Much of it. Not everything. But it's not a bad life, Dean. I know you don't see why anyone would choose it.”

“Same people every day,” Dean pointed out. “Sam things to do. Same place, every day.”

“Yes, it is, but – haven't you ever wanted that?” Sam said. He'd wanted it, badly. He'd valued it, as a precious thing he had always half-expected would one day be lost to him. He tried not to let his resentment leak into his tone: this was about he and Dean, not their father and the choices he had made for them.

“No,” Dean said, too slowly, but he sounded strong and sure as he continued, “Family business, Sammy.”

“It doesn't mean you have to do it,” Sam said. There was a chill forming on the air and he wrapped his cloak more tightly about himself. His feet were cold. He couldn't remember when they last hadn't been. “The Abbey was good to me. They liked my hand in the scriptorium, they gave me interesting work. It was worth something.”

“Yeah, but you had years ahead of you,” Dean said. “Same thing! Every day! Up at Vespers (??), pray, write, bed at ??? Come on, Sam.”

“What was your last campaign?” Sam challenged. “How many men fell? How lucky did you have to be? It may have been routine, but it was _safe_.”

“I wouldn't have let anything happen to you,” Dean said, softly enough that Sam wasn't sure if he was supposed to have heard. He said a little more loudly, “It wasn't so bad as you think.”

“Where were you fighting?” Sam said.

“Northern France,” Dean said. “They always need men there.”

“And have for a generation or more,” Sam said.

“Evidently you'd like to make a point,” Dean said levelly.

Sam sighed. “Never mind.” He felt a peculiar emptiness at abandoning the conversation. The Abbey had been full of men who would not have understood his family, and his family was men who would not try to understand the Abbey. He closed his eyes and then heard rustles, a twig snapping as Dean sat up, draped his arms over his upraised knees and stared into the fire, his shoulders a tired curve.

“Do you remember Christopher, from Winchester? He was the blacksmith's son.”

Sam sat up too, mirroring his brother's posture, happy to accept the gesture, setting his mind back to their youth in Winchester. He'd never discussed his childhood with Dean before; at the time he'd left he'd still been living it, denied full manhood by Dean's and their father's protectiveness and certainty that Sam would fall into the family line. “I don't think so.”

“He was a couple of years older than me,” Dean said. “I met him once. In southern France. He'd taken up the trade, he was smithing there, put a set of shoes on Sophia.”

“Did something happen to him?” Sam said tentatively. Dean sounded non-committal and Sam couldn't tell, in the darkness, whether it was genuine or a mask.

“What? Yeah. I mean, before I saw him, he'd lost an eye, had a limp, I don't know how it happened. I last saw him alive, if that's what you mean.”

What did Sam mean? He wasn't sure he knew without being able to work out what the hell Dean meant. “I see,” he said, although he didn't.

“It's not all bad,” Dean said. “There's a good feeling, you know? You ever feel, at the Abbey, you're, I don't know, part of something?”

“I did,” Sam said. Yes, Dean would have enjoyed the camaraderie, being with men like himself. Dean wasn't a simple man, but his pleasures were: his horse, a sharp clean blade, a drink and a dice-throw and a fuck at the end of the day. “Sometimes I did. Part of me always felt different. Most of the others were always for the church, since they were children.”

“Which you definitely weren't,” Dean agreed. “You could have been, you know. Mother might have wanted it for you, Father didn't know for sure.”

“You discussed me?” Sam said.

“Yes,” Dean said. “He was mad for a while. Well, a long while. But he always thought of you, Sammy. He used to write to someone in the city, you know that? Trying to get news of you.”

“I didn't know that.”

“A son in St. Mary's is a prideful thing,” Dean said after a moment, awkwardly. “We did know.”

Sam laughed softly. “Even for Winchesters?”

Dean snorted, explosively inelegant in the rustling peace around them. Behind them, Sam heard Sophia rumble a response. He said, “To anyone who asked.”

Sam thought of the books he'd read, when the yellow-eyed demon had first come to him: the exorcisms he'd seen, how they'd prayed for a deathly sick brother and watched him recover, the guarded peace he'd seen on the worshipper's faces after confession. Maybe he hadn't been so far from his family as he'd thought.

“There's more than one way to fight,” he said softly. He leaned in and soaked in some of his brother's warmth and slightly sour scent. Dean smelled like their father; like Sam's own linens, now, when he bathed.

“If you say so,” Dean said, but it wasn't an argument. He made noise rearranging his blankets and finding a comfortable position. The silence that came around them was familiar and clean, and contained a measure of grace Sam hadn't hoped to find again from his brother.

* * *

The change that came over Dean as they rode into the city was fascinating. It would have been imperceptible to Sam that Dean began to ride closer to him, except that even now his mount – now named Augustine, and calmed down to a lazy beast with whom Sam existed in a fragile truce – became fidgety at Sophia's nearness. Once Sam had seen that, he noted the increased guardedness that lay behind Dean's gaze and in the delicate tension of his figure astride the horse; and that one of the things it was hiding was an excitement and pleasure: Dean's close attention to the people and things they passed, as the road became busier on London's thickly inhabited outskirts, was not merely borne of caution.

Sam himself was more torn about coming to the first city he'd entered since York, and thus the first strange city in many years. Once, he had been adept at mastering a new place, making friends with the new children, but he was grown now, and cities represented more than novelty; yet another habit he'd grown out of. Of course he'd considered London for his escape, university perhaps, or taking up a trade, until his dreams had driven him onto sacred ground, and his fears to a place smaller. Even so, there was plenty of that to be found in London, and something within him quieted into an accustomed serenity as the Vespers bells rang imperiously out over the city.

“I'll take you to Father James first,” Dean announced. “Then I have some business to take care of.”

“What sort of business?” Sam said, reflexively. “I don't think we should be apart, Dean. I'll join you on your business, we'll see Father James together later.”

“No,” Dean said flatly. His tone was half a shade of their father, autocratic and granite, and half bravado, a thin streak of unsureness Sam was only just learning to identify in it.

“Why?” Sam said, evenly, trying to keep the whine that seemed to be his natural reaction to that tone out of his voice. It was ridiculous: they were adults, and Dean wasn't their father; from Dean, at least, Sam could demand explanations.

“Because it's business,” Dean said.

“Is it a woman?” Sam asked, feeling suddenly out of his depth. He'd had his share of women, before taking his vows; with Dean as his brother, he hadn't been able to avoid that. It hadn't come up, with them alone on the road, but of course Dean wouldn't have stopped taking girls, when he could convince them or afford them. He felt silly, almost unmanned, but he couldn't help that the subject made him shy.

Dean grinned and the atmosphere seemed to relax between them. “No, it's not a woman, Sammy. But if you're interested-”

“I am not,” Sam said, as coldly as he could manage. “If it's not a woman-”

“I told you, it's business,” Dean said. “And you're not coming, and that's an end to it.”

“Is it about Father?” Sam said.

“In a way,” Dean said, at last. “Sam, look, it's not that I don't want you there. But I don't want to involve you if I don't have to.”

“The chances are small I can be uninvolved, now, I think,” Sam said, beginning to feel snappish. “Have you a more convincing argument?”

“It's not an argument,” Dean tried. “You're not coming.”

“I can assure you that this is an argument,” Sam said. “One good reason, Dean, sincerely, and I will be sent off to Father James at your will.”

“I can't take you in there,” Dean said lowly.

“Why not?” Sam rapped out.

There was a silence. Dean said, “How many weapons are you carrying, Sam?”

He sounded exhausted, far more so than he had yet betrayed over their journey, his earlier happiness at approaching a city seemingly gone. Sam caught the mood; he caught Dean's meaning, and wished he'd never pressed his side, had gone off to Father James, back to a brief respite in the world he knew. Sam carried two blades, a hunting knife more suited to skinning game than threatening men, and a sharp thin stiletto worth more than his horse, which he had not removed from the sheath since Dean had pressed it into his hands. A crossbow was slung from his saddle, all the arrows from Dean's. He couldn't protect Dean's back, and he wished passionately he hadn't forced Dean to make that so clear.

“You'll hurry it, your business?” he said.

Dean said, “I'll try, Sam.”

* * *

James was a parish priest, across the river in the City borough of Southwark. Sam crossed London Bridge and passed along past the new cathedral and along past the busy, noisy Borough Market. It was disconcerting to ride through such viciously lively streets, awkward to guide his horse through the press of people. After the serenity of St Mary's and the weeks on the road, avoiding people and getting used to Dean, it felt subtly wrong to be surrounded by people, strangers; he seemed to feel gazes boring into him, and the brush of people against his legs as he rode felt intrusive and cold. London was so much larger than York, and the musty smells of people and animals, the smoke from cookfires and workshops, combined to make the streets unwelcoming and difficult; it had rained recently and mud twisted up around the horse's legs and made puddles on the unevenly cobbled street.

He had to ask directions several times. Building in London was fast and tenant turnover rapid, and although Sam had a good memory the streets were different from his last visit. People regarded him thoughtfully when he asked for ?? parish church, hesitated just a little before answering, or perhaps he was only paranoid.

He dwelt on his own problems as he neared the churchground. He'd abandoned his vocation, the choice James had been proud of; he'd caused the death of a man, and he was chased through his dreams by a being he feared and distrusted, a being that had wormed its way into his vows and turned them rotten from the inside. He'd brought that home to his family, he was bringing it back to James. What if Sam wasn't welcome? He didn't think James would turn him away, but he was afraid of understanding that James would like to.

There was a bustle around the church and Sam couldn't remember if that was typical. He dismounted and led Augustine a little way, until he could grab a likely looking boy and pay him some coins to stand with the horse, with the promise of more to come upon Sam's return. He pulled his tunic more tightly around himself, feeling an obscure urge towards disguise, missing the long gown that would have marked him here as a monk, as someone who belonged.

The crowds thronging around the church were definitely strange, for a weekday and Sam felt the first thread of a foreboding he wished desperately to call unwarranted. He couldn't; the day seemed to darken as he wove his way through and onto the small entryway of the church, and Sam could not pretend to himself that it wasn't the truth-laced dread that had accompanied Dean's appearance and the fire it had heralded.

“Going somewhere?” The man presented himself in front of Sam, blocking the doorway unsubtly, with a stony expression. He was large and well-muscled, with the tools and apron of a farrier slung around his waist. Sam couldn't help the glance he skated down the other man, nor the automatic conclusion that he could win a fight, only with damage.

“Only to church, friend,” he said, keeping his tone even and calm. Some instinct held his tongue from admitting to a wish to see the priest, even less prior acquaintance.

“Find another,” the man advised, not unkindly.

“Why?” Sam said urgently, and the man's face grew suspicious. He improvised quickly, “I'm sorry, I just – I hoped to pray to St. ??, for a personal matter. Is there some reason I may not enter?”

The man looked appeased, but still non too sympathetic. “Problem with Father James,” he said roughly, and Sam saw a dull blackness encroach on the edges of his vision, seemed to hear a laugh at the reaches of his hearing.

“Oh?” Sam said, faintly, trying to control his voice and expression, already realising the ridiculousness of the question. A stranger, and Sam knew how he looked these days, haunted and thin – he cut a suspicious figure already, he must not give anyone a reason to detain him, but he couldn't leave with only half such a story. “But he'll be well soon, I hope?” Would this be another death to paint Sam's hands red?

“Too late for that. Violence, looks like,” the man said brusquely, giving Sam a slow, measuring look. “Been in the area long, have you?”

“Travelling through today only,” Sam said. His gaze met the man's with perfect understanding and he began to back away, keeping his movements relaxed but wary. “Thank you for your help.”

The man watched him go, coming away from his post to watch him closely, one hand resting casually close to his tooled belt.

Sam regained his horse numbly, passing out too many coins to the child and scrambling into the saddle. Father James killed, and on the first day in many years Sam had planned to see him – that was deliberate, an attack on Sam just like the fire, on his mind instead of his life. He nudged his horse back into the City boundaries, heading back for the lodgings Dean had found them, trying to stop his hands trembling on the reins and transmitting his nerves to his mount. Then he sat back in the saddle and Augustine slowed to a lazy walk. Sam didn't know if he should go back – perhaps he had lied to himself about the fire but this was a pattern now, something attacking Sam's friends with a precise, methodical cruelty. Brendan, James: they were terrible losses, to Sam and to the world, but Sam knew without self-pity that he could survive them. If this – this thing should harm Dean...

He could slip away, into the city. Dean would search, but Sam could disappear, even return to the Benedictines; they would keep Dean out, if Sam could convince them of his danger. And then – Dean would leave, eventually, torn between the hunt for Sam and for their father, and he would be in only human danger, the sorts of perils Dean knew and was well-equipped to handle.

He would hate Sam, of course. Unless he believed Sam had been taken; then there would only be grief. He thought about it for a long, exhausted moment, and then he turned Augustine's head back into the depths of the City, away from the lodgings Dean had found for them just outside.

He rode around the city, unwilling to settle, to make the decision that would part him from the quest with his brother, until Augustine began to make plain his boredom with that course of action. Then he found an inn where he could bed down himself and his horse, resigned to the fact that his finances would mean that their accommodations were of roughly equal quality.

He settled to bed early, regretting the loss of the coarse blankets Dean had provided, wrapping himself as warmly as he could in his clothing and pressing as closely as he dared into the disagreeable straw pallet. He stared at the candle slowly burning down without blowing it out and thought about his actions. He'd been impulsive but that didn't mean he'd been wrong: twice was enough, with his friends dying violently around him; he would not wait for the third to be Dean. But it left him in a precarious situation. He had very limited funds and his skills in procuring more were long-disused. There was gambling enough in the city of London, the problem was conserving his stake long enough to be sure of winning with it.

If it was time for anything, it was prayer; but something in Sam was too exhausted even for that. Prayers were not answered, that was normal, and since childhood it had not bothered Sam to pray hard and receive his consolation inwardly. Tonight he felt that the Lord's would be one silence too many.

He blew out the candle.

The day dawned foggy and cool, and Sam was there to see it. He had slept poorly, and was trying to plan through persistently nagging hunger and irritation borne of tiredness. He chewed slowly on some cold meats slipped from the kitchen using his lamentable sleight-of-hand and tried to collect himself to some kind of discipline. Stepping into the world was painful and difficult but he had done it before.

He didn't know whether the best thing would be to lie low or to keep moving. His desire was to stay still, to hide, lick his wounds, but his instinct told him to keep moving. Dean had impressed him in the past few weeks with his resources, his ability to see the swiftest way to complete a task and then to accomplish it. He had money, most probably contacts in the city – or the ability to insinuate himself into the kinds of communities that were good at finding people – and he had demonstrated a disconcerting ability to predict behaviours in Sam that Sam himself had thought long outgrown.

He recognised within himself, too, that in no small measure he wished to be found. Once, all he had wanted was independence from his family. The Abbey had provided that, but it had also been a respite from loneliness; he had never truly been alone and to be separated now from Dean, from his protectiveness, after weeks in each other's pockets, would be a cruel change.

The sun seemed to inch its way into the sky and eventually Sam was too restless to remain where he was. He was also aware of the glances he was attracting, too tall and his horse too well-groomed for the area and alive with the slight difference Sam had always seen between the members of his own family and the people Dean categorised as strangers. Augustine seemed about as pleased to move as Sam felt and had to be coaxed along, but by late morning Sam was back in the centre of the City.

When he could put himself aside for some moments, there was an excitement at being in London, quite unlike the smooth activity of York. The Thames was decorated with pleasure boats and trade, and he sat near Westminster for some time watching the nobles transact their business with far more pomp than the rest of the city, and similar levels of success. Henry V (??) was not in residence in the city, but Sam rode unobtrusively past the sprawling palace buildings and enjoyed the sense of purpose and strength that surrounded it.

He attended Mass twice, taking the Eucharist gratefully and guiltily using part of the quiet time to make plans. He had seen some likely places for discreet gambling and he resolved to observe them as early as possible the next morning, and see if he couldn't manage to finesse the game.

He was driven by need, he thought during the final prayers. He had his horse, and his own hunger and sleep to attend to; he had his dreams to suffer. As he left the church he carefully avoided looking at the crucifix hanging over the altar.

* * *

He managed two and a half days before Dean found him.

Sam was nursing a cup of rough red wine. Every sip left a residue in his mouth of near-bitterness, but he was too drained to even fetch more water to calm the taste. He had been forced to leave a gamble sharply when the other men took exception to his good luck, and the wine and insubstantial meal he'd had would take his last few coins. Soon after dark the streets would be full of men in their cups, the sort of men Sam had been watching all day, who would grieve the loss of a full purse but not starve for it; he hated to have recourse to such a disgraceful course of action, but he would rely on his strength if he must.

When Dean stormed into the tavern Sam momentarily felt too many things to register any feelings at all: there was shame, in some ways, to have Dean see Sam stumbling around his solitary life, and irritation and fear at being found, but mainly there was relief, and a simple pleasure at seeing his brother, comparable in strength to that he'd felt when Dean came to the Abbey, despite the much shortened length of this separation.

Dean came straight to him and Sam stood up, slowly, trying use his height to disconcert Dean out of a display of anger, but Dean had spent several years perfecting the act that Sam's tallness was of no importance to him.

"Have you paid?" Dean demanded as he strode up to Sam. Sam shook his head and Dean threw a few coins onto the table and grabbed Sam's wrist to pull him out of the building. His grip was harsh and afraid, and Sam submitted to being led.

Dean didn't say anything as he brought them outside. Augustine was already there, snuffling nose-to-nose with Sophia; Dean had created a complicated form of lead rein that attached him to Sophia's saddle (?? invented) and he boosted Sam up silently and swung gracefully into his own place on Sophia's back before beginning to ride east, a way Sam knew would bring them to a bridge and then out of the city.

"Dean-" he tried, when the silence began to feel like a physical weight on them. Dean reined back abruptly, wheeling an obedient Sophia back until he was nearly alongside Sam. Augustine snorted a complaint and tried to dance away and Dean grabbed his rein without looking, his gaze on Sam.

"Are you well?" he said, his voice almost vibrating with tension, and Sam stumbled over the explanations he'd been wrestling with in the privacy of his head.

“Yes, I'm fine,” Sam said, and took a moment to observe Dean properly. The anger seemed to be leaching away from him and in its place Sam thought there was an old, resigned fear.

“You weren't harmed?” Dean said. He reached for Sam, guiding Sophia closer, and his hand fell onto Sam's shoulder. He squeezed gently, as if testing, reassuring himself of the strength there, and Sam deliberately let himself relax under Dean's touch.

“Harmed by who?” Sam said, puzzled. Dean's hand went heavy on his shoulder and he pulled back hesitantly, searching Sam's face, and whatever he saw there made him slump.

“There wasn't – Sam, where were you?” he said and Sam couldn't bear to hear the dawning realisation in his voice, and see the sadness it brought to his eyes, that Sam might have again chosen to leave.

“I had to think,” he said eventually. Dean looked away, then leaned forward, focussing himself on untangling the arrangement he'd made of Augustine's leading rein. “Dean,” Sam said, trying not to be pleading. “Father James, he's dead – when I got there-”

Dean's head jerked up and he looked at Sam with shock dripping off his face, his jaw set stubborn and outraged. He rubbed a hand over his face and back over his hair. “We shouldn't talk now,” he said, flicking his gaze meaningfully at the quiet but still-populated streets, the people finishing their days before curfew, the crowding houses with their opened shutters.

“What?” Sam said, bewildered. Dean was acting like he knew what was responsible but Sam hadn't discussed his fears and even so a demon would hear them anywhere. And Sam didn't seem angry about Sam's obfuscations, or his – or his condition.

“Come on,” Dean directed and rode away, apparently sure that Sam would follow.

It was some time, and some distance from the city, before they stopped. They fell easily into the routine they'd developed for setting up camp, Dean taking care of the horses and then building a fire while Sam arranged bedrolls, privy and a semblance of a meal. It was a near-perfect dance by now, accomplished with gestures and grunts interspersed with companionable silence. Tonight the silence was somewhat strained and Sam looked up at one point to see Dean at Sophia's head, caressing her nose while she snuffled at him for concern and treats, his face a mask of careful control.

They dined comfortably, so soon out of the city, salted pork and even some root vegetables Sam baked in the embers. When they were done Dean reached into his pack and tossed something at Sam with a brusque, “Here.”

Sam caught it and it took a moment to understand the pitted slippy sphere, vibrantly orange, although slightly the worse for its ship from Spain. He exclaimed, “Dean!” and didn't wait before peeling the treasure carefully and sliding the tart, sweet segments into his mouth, possibly making a small noise as the half-remembered juices dripped onto his tongue.

Dean watched him with a peculiar look on his face. “You liked them when we were kids. When we could get them.”

“I do,” Sam said gratefully. Citrus was a luxury in the Abbey as everywhere and it was a treat he was fond of. “Thanks.” Dean must have paid a great deal for the innocuous fruits: had he done that before Sam went missing or after, in hope? Dean wouldn't admit to superstitions but he certainly had them: favoured weapons, the amulet Sam had given him years ago and which he still wore, the many ideas he'd picked up as a travelling soldier and mercenary.

Dean sighed and fidgeted, his own orange lying unmolested in his lap. Sam eyed it discreetly and then he placed his leavings carefully in the fire and said, “We should talk.”

“Yes,” Dean said, somewhat unsteadily. “Sammy, I was,” he paused and took in a deep, ragged breath. “Tell me what happened with Father James.”

“I couldn't get into the church,” Sam started, haltingly. “There was on man, on guard, I suppose, I couldn't get much information, he just told me Father James was dead. Had been killed. Violence, he said.”

Dean bowed his head for a second. He said quietly, “I'm sorry.”

Sam shrugged helplessly. “It's not your fault,” he answered quietly.

Dean looked up and the light of their fire glinted off his eyes, making them look shadowed and abyss-dark. Sam couldn't make out his expression beyond the sad, tired set of his mouth.

“The people I saw, I went to ask about our father,” he said, and Sam was jabbed by the memory of the confessional; Dean had that same accepting, fearful air. “He's mixed up in something bad, Sam. Maybe it got James killed.”

Sam looked at him sharply. He'd been confident it was one of the demon's actions, but if their father was truly involved with something dangerous, perhaps it wasn't that, after all. But he'd been so sure; he'd had such a strong feeling...

“Dean, what's he mixed up in?”

“The people I was talking to, they all had bits of the story,” Dean said. He sounded reluctant, speaking thickly; he hated to say anything about their father that could be construed as negative and Sam let a familiar, comforting wave of frustration well up in him at Dean's fleeing to old habits. “It's something to do with our mother.”

“Our mother?” Sam asked, baffled. She had died when he was a baby, and although he had missed her as an abstract there had been women enough around Winchester Castle to treat him as a child when he required it, and Dean and Father to treat him as a man when he required that. He had tried to conceal it from Dean, who spoke of her in reverent tones, and certainly from their father, who held her too sacred to speak of.

“With how she was killed,” Dean said, a controlled edge of rawness in his voice. “You know he's never stopped wanting explanations.”

“- Someone to _get revenge_ on-” Sam interjected.

“I suppose he thought – he thinks he's found something,” Dean said, ignoring Sam, much as he expected.

“Then you know where he is?” Sam said, torn between relief and wariness at the prospect of finding their father, now it seemed like it could actually happen.

“He went to Venice,” Dean muttered.

“Venice? What's in Venice?” Sam said, trying to remember if he had ever heard their father mention the city. He had never been, but of course he knew of the Republic. The mere word conjured up the excitement and glamour of a trading centre comparable to London, cosmopolitan and strong and rich.

“I don't know,” Dean said, in a tone that made it clear that he was in a position to make a reasonably accurate hypothesis. Sam let it go for now.

“Then we go to Venice,” Sam said, allowing a question to drift into his voice.

“Right,” Dean said, unenthusiastically.

“What?” Sam snapped. He felt suddenly exhausted: returning to Dean had been enough fuss for one day, he felt. Talk of their mother had made him unaccountably maudlin; he wanted to curl up into his bedroll and think on, poke at the ache that he always guiltily felt ought to be a stab at her loss.

“I shouldn't have come for you,” Dean said finally. That was a stab, but Sam couldn't miss the genuine hurt underlying his brother's words.

“Well,” he said eventually.

“You were safe in the Abbey, you know?” Dean said. He sighed. “At least I knew you were safe. And now with all this shit...”

“No, I want to be here,” Sam said softly. He hadn't been safe and now that he was here Dean wasn't safe either, but he couldn't explain that to Dean.

“Yeah,” Dean said, his voice dejected. “I'm going to sleep.” He arranged himself around the softly dying fire and shut his eyes, his body staying tense and unhappy and his breath evening out too quickly not to be faking.

* * *

The ride to Dover was accomplished more quickly, Dean urging them on anxiously so that they rose until the horses' heads drooped low and the moon rose in the sky. Sam could only partly attribute the new feeling between them to their heightened exhaustion: Dean's manner was a mixture of stiff and stifling, and Sam was grieved to know somewhere deep in himself that he had lost a measure of his brother's trust. Dean never would talk about things that mattered to him and Sam was torn between the desire to force him into a frank discussion and the understanding that he himself was protected by Dean's silence. The dreams visited Sam nightly, unsettling him for longer each morning.

It was more of a wrench than Sam expected to leave Augustine, the cost and difficulty of transporting horses by sea over such a distance being too great, but Dean was visibly distressed to part from Sophia. Sam hovered helplessly, wanting to provide the comfort Dean wouldn't accept; there was real grief in Dean's eyes when they walked away from the stables, and Sam didn't complain while Dean spent some time and a good deal of their funds impressing the standards of care he expected for their horses on the bored lads who worked there.

After leaving the horses they walked down to the docks. Sam was caught by the display there: of course he'd spent time at the busy London docks but to see ships waiting on the banks of the Thames was quite different to the array of merchant vessels docked at Dover and waiting on the open waves behind the docks, the English Channel rioting under their bows and the horizon fading into grey behind them. He didn't notice Dean getting progressively darker alongside him until he turned to his brother to offer an observation and saw the thunderous look on his face.

“What's wrong?” he asked, surprised. He looked at the view again; he certainly couldn't see anything that should bother Dean so badly.

“Nothing,” Dean snapped.

“Tell it to your face,” Sam muttered. “Do you want to go down now?”

“We need money,” Dean said briefly. “We'll find a ship tomorrow.”

“Fine,” Sam said, and although he would have turned to watch the lively display of activity further Dean had already turned his back and was stomping away, back towards the market centre of the town. Sam glared at his back and followed. As he turned for one last glimpse of the ships he caught a man's eye, and was surprised to be met in unblinking challenge. Dean would have taken offence for the good name of Winchester; Sam ducked his head and rounded his shoulders and darted forward to his place at his brother's side.

He remembered the small incident later, half-certain he saw the same man in the same tavern where Dean was playing lazy, confident games of dice with an assortment of men who carried themselves with varying degrees of malevolence. He didn't mention it: Dean needed all of his concentration to win their fares and upkeep to Venice and Sam needed most of his to prevent Dean's receiving a knife in the back in the process.

Dean won healthily and as Sam shepherded him out of the inn, leaving a disgruntled crowd behind them, he was high-strung and bright-eyed, gleeful with victory and insistent on taking drink.

“And piss away all those fine coins you've won?” Sam said dryly. It made him happy to see Dean happy in the loose, uncomplicated way a gambling victory made him, but he wanted his bed, and he said as much.

“Now that is an excellent idea,” Dean said, and his voice took on a lascivious rumble. He threw a playful arm around Sam and started to pull him down the street, moving with a renewed purpose. “What say you, Sammy? There ain't no women on boats, best satisfy ourselves now.”

Sam kept his smile on his face, although his feat suddenly felt leaden. “Not for me, Dean. You go, you should.”

“Sam,” Dean said. “Seriously. _No women_ at sea. Come on, this city must have something for the comfort of a lonely sailor.”

“I think not,” Sam said, and he couldn't help the sharpness that came into his tone, which Dean disregarded in any case.

“Why not?” Dean said, sounding honestly confused.

“I'm a _monk_ ,” Sam snarled, “I can't, of course I can't.”

Dean stopped dead and Sam stopped with him, shaking Dean's arm off his shoulders. Dean still didn't look quite clear with the concept and Sam let a flash of irritation overwhelm the humiliation at seeming unmanned. Dean had been out wenching before while they were on the road; Sam expected that from his brother, who had always simply enjoyed women and who liked to be enjoyed by them, but Dean hadn't asked Sam to accompany him to the brothels and Sam had dared to hope that he understood Sam's position.

“But you've left,” Dean said. “You can. You can do whatever you want.”

“I've left the Abbey,” Sam said. “Not the vows. I haven't left God.”

Dean looked lost. “I thought-” he broke off.

Sam snapped, “I hope you didn't hurt yourself,” and felt bad when Dean didn't jibe back, just looked at Sam with wide eyes. He tried to modulate his tone to something kinder, but it was hard: he wanted women, sex, of course he did, but he wanted it to matter, and he had foregone the option of having that in his life. He had pitifully little left to offer up, but he still had his body. “Sorry. You go, Dean. I'm fine.”

Dean looked pensive, but he reached for his beltpurse, clumsily, the easy grace of his pleasure at winning gone. He spilled a few coins into Sam's hand and Sam closed his fist around them, feeling a gulf open up between them, one quite different from the other lies and omissions: this was expectations, and hopes, and the things they needed their family to be and never quite achieved.

“All right,” Dean said quietly. “You'll go back to the lodgings?”

Sam nodded, and then Dean did, and then he trudged away. Sam watched him go for a moment before turning in the direction of the inn where they had a room. When he got there he used some of Dean's winnings to acquire several wineskins, and put himself to th task of becoming quietly and thoroughly drunk.

His head punished him for it the following morning, compounded by having to pretend to Dean that his evening's entertainment had held rather more dignity than was the case. Dean had taken a proud interest in Sam's progress with girls, before Sam had left for the Abbey, and appreciated sex in its own right, and Sam wasn't up to defending his choices with a morning head that might suggest to Dean – whose idea of cause and effect was rather less sophisticated than Sam's own - that he regretted them. Dean himself was in a good mood, his smiles coming easily and his usual swagger a little more pronounced, and he treated Sam with gentle if smug good humour as he ate Sam's breakfast leavings and they returned to the docks to look for a ship that would give them passage to Venice.

* detail about venetian ships and trade *

Sam took the lead in negotiating their needs with captains. His Latin was fluent but it felt strange to be using it in such a worldly context, discussing prices and bunk space and conditions, rather than the rather more rarefied usage it was put to in the Church. Sam didn't speak the rhythmic Venetian language, but many Venetian ships were staffed from all over Europe, the Republic being unable to provide all her ships with a full complement, and he thought they would get on with their shipmates just fine. Dean's Latin was passable and he had some German, French, and Flemish, tending to the vulgar due to the soldiers and campaigns he'd picked them up from.

Dean gradually lost his relaxed mien as the day wore on. They were looking for berths on a merchant ship, passenger ships being more expensive, but that meant stops to pick up or sell goods and again and again Sam looked to Dean after a captain gave them an estimated date of arrival only to see a sharp headshake: too long.

By early afternoon Sam was tired and beginning to become irritated himself. Some of the captains asked questions Sam had to work to politely evade, while others looked at he and Dean with an speculative viciousness that made him uneasy. And Dean was becoming more and more tense behind and just to his side, each of them bleeding discomfort to the other.

By the time they were seated in front of plates of a rich-smelling stew Sam was ready to call the day over and begin again tomorrow. They had found a couple of possibilities but Dean had made it clear nothing that was really what he wanted. Sam didn't know what kind of a turnover the shipping in Dover had: would they be waiting a long time for new ships if they turned the current batch down? Or perhaps it would be better to take a ship to France and then travel overland to Venice – although winter was coming and the Alps might not be passable... Trying to share his thoughts with Dean brought only disinterested humming, Dean's good mood from the morning apparently totally lost. In the end Sam also applied himself to his dinner and left his brother to his brown study, hoping they could return to the search in better spirits after eating. He had to admit he was beginning to feel some of Dean's urgency. It was pointless to worry about the dreams, the demon, Father James; there he had only prayer. But Sam could worry over his father and the obsessions that kept him powerful and driven in body and broken in mind.

Dean was in as bad a mood as ever after their lunch and Sam found himself catching the mood. They visited one more ship where he was unable to dredge up any sort of mannerly behaviour, and by the end of the interview it was clear that even had Sam and Dean cared to use the ship, the captain would not have cared to carry two such graceless lumps.

“We should finish for the day,” Dean announced afterwards, in an officious way that Sam felt sure was calculated to annoy. He had lost enthusiasm himself, but Dean's words made him feel contrary.

“There's plenty of light,” he said. “And more ships yet. Perhaps if you'd spent last night in more wholesome pursuits...” He deliberately adopted a lofty tone learned from the most priggish monks, the sort Dean had chafed against most as a boy.

“That has nothing to do with anything,” Dean said. “And don't give me that crap, you're about as good at this right now as I am. We're not gaining anything and we'll make ourselves look suspicious.”

“You're paranoid,” Sam snapped. “We're chasing our father, if you've forgotten. He won't be sitting about on his arse, we can't either.”

“Don't lecture me on Father's habits,” Dean said and although Sam picked up on the silky edge of danger in his voice he was too worn out and heartsick and irritated to leave the subject. “Who's been with him the last few years? While you spoilt yourself on books and prayer-”

“Spoilt myself?” Sam repeated, not bothering to control an incredulous rise in volume. “Fuck you, Dean, he told me to go – you both did, you told me, he's the one who said not to bother coming back-”

“He didn't think you wouldn't!” Dean yelled. “Both of you, so _stubborn_ , Jesus wept! We were supposed to be a family-”

“We are a family!” Sam shouted back. “It doesn't mean I'm not me as well! I came, didn't I? I'm here.” He stared at Dean, noticing how pale he was, how his hands trembled where he'd made fists at his sides, and he wondered what they were doing, when they were each all the other had left. When Dean had come for him, and Sam had gone.

Dean looked back, and then he walked past Sam, back towards the city. Sam waited for Dean to pause in his stride and tilt his head back towards Sam in silent acknowledgement before he caught up.

That evening saw them exist in yet another fragile peace, one that left a dull ache in Sam's belly and a roaring silence in his ears. If anything they fought less than before he'd left but the fights when they came were dirtier, like moving from hand-to-hand sparring to blades so sharp he found himself bleeding from a thousand tiny cuts he hadn't felt as they were being inflicted. Being with Dean had so many difficulties now, when once it had been so natural it hadn't even occurred to Sam it was something they could lose.

“Sam,” Dean said, later, after they'd gone to bed, but not to sleep. His voice held peculiar notes of defiance, need and regret, and Sam thought that at least he still knew enough of his brother's soul to know that.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Me too.”

Dean gave a long exhalation, acceptance and offering of forgiveness, and Sam heard rustling as he turned over. He'd noticed Dean preferred to sleep facing Sam, if possible, like he thought that way he could ensure Sam would be there when he woke.

“It's stupid,” he said apologetically. Sam opened his eyes. He couldn't make Dean out well but he could see the dull gleam of his eyes as he blinked in the moonlight coming in at the narrow window.

“What is?” Sam said, trying to keep his tone persuasively open, hungry for the titbits his brother seemed to be holding out to him.

Dean made a noise, a rueful snorting groan. He said, “It's boats. I get sick, the food's bad, the people, I don't – you're just there, and you look out and there's nothing around you.”

“Wait. You're afraid of sailing?” Sam said in disbelief. A little part of the childhood image he'd had of Dean, worshipful and seeing no flaws, shattered, but underneath part of Dean was revealed human and warm and bright. Sam felt fine with the trade.

“Not afraid, as such,” Dean said half-heartedly. “I don't like them. Why do you think I ride everywhere, Sam? I've never done much more than cross the Channel.”

“Will you be all right?” Sam said in concern. Maybe he'd been on the right track, before, with going overland. But if Dean could only bear the Channel, to ride from northern France would take months. Sea routes were circuitous, but faster.

“As you said, Father won't be sitting on his arse,” Dean said. “We'll find a ship tomorrow. I just wanted you to know.”

“Since I'll have the privilege of making sure you don't fall overboard while you vomit over the side,” Sam said, keeping it light, like Dean hadn't made a concession.

“Why else would I keep you around?” Dean said, using the same breezy tone, and the subject was closed. Sam shut his eyes and nosed deeper into his pillowed jerkin, feeling Dean's gaze safe upon him as he went to sleep.

* * *

They rose early and Sam was jubilated to find something changed between them, peace and reliance taking the place of prickliness, like they'd reached some sort of equilibrium. A mellow autumn sun warmed them through as they stood on the deck of the latest possibility, working together in a smooth dance to bargain with the captain. By lunchtime they had secured speedy passage to Venice, leaving post-haste, in a cabin that would be squeezed but private. Captain Menabuoi was garrulous and friendly but the ship was clean and in good order, and he indicated both pleasure and discretion when Dean made oblique reference to their presence giving him a clergyman onboard.

Afterwards Sam was dispatched to see to their supplies while Dean performed an unannounced check on the stables where they had lodged the horses. Sam thought it had been a slight inconvenience to be without them around the port city, but it was worth it to give Dean the time to reassure himself that he had left Sophia in safe hands. Sam wandered the streets, visiting stalls and shops, and bought the goods Dean had listed for him, enjoying the many accents he heard, the various foreign styles on the streets of such a busy town. He wasn't sentimental about England – not like Dean, who was rooted solidly in the country he'd fought to protect – but then he'd never left it. Of course in the Abbey he'd been largely separated from the normal doings of the country and people, but there was still the land, the language. He wondered if he'd miss it.

They met again to eat in the evening. Sam sat back and let Dean talk, hearing all about the conditions the horses were living in, which were somewhat less exacting than Dean's but, apparently, just about adequate. He smiled tolerantly at his brother's mithering complaints, and let Dean's relaxed smiles back relate the real story, that Dean was content enough.

“Three more days,” he said expansively. “Any last goodbyes?”

“Don't say that,” Dean said, laughing. “Christ, what bad luck.”

“There's no luck,” Sam intoned, and fended off a chicken bone. “No, I'll count myself lucky if I can get you on the ship.”

“Cheeky swine,” Dean said. “I shouldn't have said anything, I think I can cope.”

Sam tutted. “You and your fragile constitution. Don't worry, brother, I'll look after you.”

“Fuck you,” Dean said amiably and sniggered loudly; Sam saw people looking at them. They ought to be more discreet but it was nice to be in a good mood together, things working, ready to look for their father. Dean was always ready for an adventure, and Venice was far enough away for him not to have to engage in anything but the low-level persistent worry for John that also suffused Sam.

They made the most of one of their last nights with ready access to food and drink and staggered back to their lodgings in the early hours of the morning. Even drunk they were used to moving through the night and it wasn't difficult to huddle into doorways and scoot around corners when the watch hove into view, or for Sam to pull Dean away from the various ladies who tried to entice them from their path. Once or twice Sam thought he heard footsteps behind them, and he caught Dean intent on nothing once or twice as if he were listening hard as well, but nothing presented itself and Sam put it from his mind.

* * *

The realities of the situation began to set further in the next morning. Sam's way of dealing with new, off-putting things was to learn about them, and Dean's to take action, and both came into play as they visited the docks and watched their ship, _La Bella Cornaro_ , taking on its cargo ????. Dean made friends with the oarsmen and crew, scrambling into the rigging in a triumphant if wobbly manner when he saw Sam watching. Sam spoke to the navigator and captain, learning about their route and hearing them talk of their city with wistful reverence, and beginning to pick up their language.

In between, when their welcome seemed to be worn out, they culled their already meagre collection of belongings and then reduced them even further, mindful of the small space that would have to contain themselves and their things for several months. Dean visited the gambling dens systematically; he won more than he lost, Sam solid and imposing at his back throughout. Afterwards Dean slipped away to the houses of ill repute. They didn't argue about it again, and Sam didn't mention that he was using the time alone in prayer vigils in one of the small churches around the city. He spent time at altars dedicated to St. Christopher, for travelling, and St. Jude, for lost causes.

Their final evening was spent quietly. The ship would sail on the morning tide, their things were aboard, and they had arranged to retire to sleep on the ship in readiness. They didn't take liquor: Sam knew that Dean was hoping for rather more dignity as they sailed away than to be come by sickness from both alcohol and the sea.

They strolled through the town, comfortably well-fed and lazy. Sam was feeling more unsettled than he liked to admit about leaving, but he didn't intend to show it if Dean didn't. Dean had left England many times, and to much more uncertain futures; at least Sam had his brother. Perhaps he also didn't like to admit to himself that there was some relief in the thought of leaving. The demon could follow him, he didn't doubt that, but he wanted to hope that it wouldn't.

He was a split-second late. Dean's instincts were sharp and cynical and by the time he had his sword slashing towards the unprotected throat of the first of their attackers Sam was turning, too slowly, to face the ones coming from behind, fumbling the draw of the stabbing blade (??) he carried.

It was too desperate for Sam to tell how many there were. The thought crossed his mind that he must avoid bloodshed, at all costs avoid killing, and he tried to move defensively, to block and parry. Then he heard Dean grunt behind him as a fist met its target. The sound of his brother's pain shoved him into the bloody actions his muscles remembered from childhood. He shouted wordlessly as an attacker fell gored on his blade.

He cried out at a sharp pain in his ribs, like a hot knife sliding into his flesh, dimly registering that his attacker had a cosh, not a blade, his rib only painfully broken. He heard a yell from Dean and then Dean bumped urgently against his back. He twisted them so Sam was nearer to the wall, more protected by Dean's furious graceful sword.

He could get a better look at their attackers then. Two black-clad men were standing back, watching the fight, poised and ready to join at any moment. Their appearance nagged at something in Sam's brain, different to the rougher men in the fight. Sam's whole existence was in his body, in the blood slugging down his flesh from small wounds, in the pain radiating through him from his ribs, deadening every part of him with each further movement.

“I would like them alive for searching,” one of the men called. Searching for what? Sam couldn't spare the thought but his concentration was broken anyway, even as Dean fought on with fierce metronomic rhythm, and he shouted as a blade scored a thick line across his belly.

He wasn't sure if he hit his head as he crashed down, but he fell gratefully into the waiting blackness anyway.

* * *

a beautiful blonde woman was carrying Dean away from him he shouted and ran after them, space opening up further and further between them as his feet split open and bled and she looked at him with yellow eyes

the blood hissed onto hot coals hot under his feet but he had to get to Dean, Dean calling him but he couldn't find which way was up

and father was there, holding onto Dean, forked tongue hissing out that sam had to leave to go and never come back and then the blonde woman was laughing there too and fire ate them all

boots clicked along the canal and smal scooped water into the softly shining cup and dean told him to drink.

* * *

He felt as if he was moving when he moved slowly into wakefulness. It took several minutes for awareness to come back and to collect himself enough to remember how it felt to live inside his body, and once he trusted his body he could open his eyes and realise that he _was_ moving. He was on a ship, and from the gentle lilting forwardness it was in full force across the sea.

He tried to call out and could only manage a throaty croak, but it brought noise from the floor next to him. Then Dean's head was poking over the side of the hammock and he felt a hand on his face. “Sammy? Sammy,” and Dean was putting a hand under his neck with a swift, practiced action and tilting him up for cloth soaked in water. Sam let it wet his lips and dribble down his dry throat, focussing on that more than on Dean's damp gasping sounds of relief, from somewhere near his head.

“Sam,” Dean said again, sounding like there were blades at his throat, and Sam had a try at nodding his head. Dean moved into view then: he looked thin and distraught, and Sam gave him two quick taps, their childhood signal for 'everything's well', and about all Sam could manage. Dean said, “Can you talk? Talk to me, Sammy. How do you feel?”

Sam gave a barking chuckle, surprised at the raspiness of it, and said, “Bad.” He meant it, but still the panic started to smooth off Dean's face, and Sam realised Dean must have thought him dead in the mind, at least. His head hurt, throbbing perniciously; the rest of his body was merely an ache from injury and inactivity, ebbing and flowing through him like it was a part of the sea he could feel through himself just a little too much. There was a crimson sharpness around the belly he knew better than to try to test. “How long?”

“Near three weeks,” Dean said unsteadily. “You've been awake before, but not – not hearing me, like this.”

“You took ship,” Sam said; stating the obvious, but that was how he felt, like he needed to rebuild the world from the beginning, like a child's puzzle. “You got away?”

“The Watch stopped it,” Dean said. “I got us away and the ship was organised, it seemed safest...” He sounded guilty and Sam flapped one hand at him weakly, trying to tell him it didn't matter. Dean had done whatever he needed to do for Sam, he didn't doubt that, and it had obviously hurt him. Sam didn't want to think of it, Dean in this tiny cabin for weeks with his brother maybe nothing more than a corpse that hadn't realised it yet. He couldn't think of it, not for Dean, not with his head as painful as it was.

“Can you stay awake long enough to eat?” Dean said abruptly, his tone taking on a falsely cheerful note. Sam groaned and he said hastily, “Broth, or something. You need something.” And because the blades were still in Dean's voice, cutting him up, Sam nodded, and tried not to mind being left alone with the pain.  
?? painkillers

Sam was never sure, later, quite how long he stayed in that strange fugue stage, definitely recovering but not fast enough for it to be noticeable from moment to teeth-gritting moment. He slept a great deal, and ate less than Dean would have wished, and couldn't hold a thought in his mind long enough to properly accomplish either questioning Dean or worrying over him.

The tightness stayed in his brother's face, the shadow of fear was still in his eyes when he looked at Sam, although he was as attentive a nursemaid as he'd ever been when Sam was a squalling child come down with sniffles that seemed to him to be the Plague itself. Dean was in what Sam began to think of as the sickroom almost as permanently as Sam, and eventually Sam worked out that it was as much for his own benefit as Sam's, and stopped encouraging Dean to spend time on the deck. In any case Dean reported that the original friendliness of the crew had become more businesslike when they had their jobs to do, and politely but firmly made clear that a resolute land-lover like Dean was more of a hindrance than an interest. Sam did insist that Dean begin to spend more time on deck when the ship docked for a couple of days and Sam realised Dean didn't even know where they were, but in general they kept to the unspoken understanding that Dean wanted to be at Sam's side, and that Sam wanted him there.

* * *

Sam waited until he was well enough to join Dean on deck before he initiated the serious discussions he had been planning, and dreading, since waking. He comforted himself that at least Dean's reaction could not be too terrible; he could hardly avoid Sam and the things they had to say to one another aboard ship.

“Why Venice?” he asked, settling next to Dean on the foredeck, both of them carefully out of the way of the working crew. It was near the turn of the year but they were far enough south now, off the coast of France, that the sun was still shining, although not offering much warmth.

He kept his tone modulated, almost disinterested, but Dean stiffened near-imperceptibly anyway. “I told you, I don't know.”

“I think you've got an idea,” Sam contradicted. He leaned back awkwardly and gave a soft hiss of pain. Dean threw him an ironic look, easily reading what Sam meant to do, but his hands were on Sam immediately anyway, soothing him steadily back against a coil of rope.

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Sam turned his face up to the sun and closed his eyes, aware of Dean fidgeting with the thick silver ring he wore, letting his brother think through things.

“What Father's supposed to be mixed up with,” Dean said eventually, speaking slowly. He laughed, ruefully and humourlessly. “It's more your shit than mine. Or his.”

“The Church?” Sam said, working it out, but he couldn't imagine in quite which capacity John of Winchester might have become involved with an institution he preferred to respect from afar. Surely he hadn't- “He hasn't taken orders?”

Dean let out a laugh, filled as much with gratitude for the lightening of the situation. “No. Ha, can you imagine? He'd be out on his ear by dinnertime.”

“He would,” Sam said. He grinned down at his own hands, twisted nervously together in his lap. His skin had an oddly delicate translucency, stretched too thin over the bones of his wrists: he was still too skinny, and unlikely to fatten up on shipboard food.

“You were right for it,” Dean said reflectively; another sign of how much he wished not to discuss it. It was still clear that he felt a fierce, jealous curiosity about Sam's time in the Abbey, and only intermittently wanted to discuss it.

“It was good for me then,” Sam said firmly. His bridges with the Benedictines and their brother orders were burned, he was reconciled to that. He wasn't unhappy to be travelling with his brother, and if Dean needed to hear that often, Sam could probably indulge him for a while. “don't change the subject.”

Dean sighed. “He always wondered if he could have saved Mother.”

“I know,” Sam said, puzzled, “but, Dean, he was never even really sure what killed her, not that he told us. How could he have saved her?”

“They get you copying romances at that place?” Dean said, obscurely.

Sam held his tongue on his impatience and answered, “No. There were other scribes in the city for that kind of work.”

“But you read some,” Dean said. “Before you left, whatever. Yes?”

“Yes,” Sam said. “Which did you have in mind?”

“The Grail stories,” Dean said.

“Yes,” Sam said, slowly, his mind working to try to fit this with the things he already knew. “I read Chretien le Troy's stories, when I was learning French. And the King Arthur cycle, the new one. Malory. The Grail is – well, if it were real, it'd have amazing power. It's supposed to be able to heal, maybe even bestow immortality on anyone who drinks from it.”

“Congratulations, you get to be our expert,” Dean said. “Father thinks it's real, Sam. And he thinks it's in Venice.”

There were too many inexplicable things about his words for Sam to choose among them.

“For what purpose?” he settled on finally. “Even if he finds it – even if it's real, Dean, which isn't a damn foregone conclusion – what does he want with it? It won't bring Mother back, to have a, a souvenir!”

“Not the attitude I expected from you,” Dean said sharply. “Our Lord's drinking cup? I thought you'd be all about that.”

“No,” Sam snapped. “It's not – I don't need _things_ , Dean.”

“Yeah, all right,” Dean said, all the bitterness seeming to go out of him in a rush of air. “We're not going to fight about it. That's what he's looking for, that's why he went there.”

“I never heard it was supposed to be in Venice,” Sam said doubtfully.

“The Knights of the Temple took it there,” Dean said. “When everything happened with them.”

“Of course they did,” Sam said, rolling his eyes. The Templars were notorious. They'd been heretics, that was the judgement – but somehow Sam was unsure they'd done all the terrible things they were reputed to have done. He wasn't sure they would have had time, for one thing.

“No, I think, that might be the most solid part of it,” Dean said lowly. “You must have heard that they carried on, went underground.”

“Rumours,” Sam said.

“I'm not sure,” Dean said. “How much of the attack do you remember, Sammy? They were trained, they were good – they got the jump on us, right? They thought we were carrying something they wanted. And they looked...”

He broke off, but he turned to Sam for the first time in the conversation, watching him expectantly. Sam frowned, not sure what Dean was getting at, and he stared at the shapeless horizon and did his best to remember the details of the attack. It was a blur, mostly, his body taking over in self-defense; he remembered Dean at his side and his back, the fluid beauty of his fighting, the clatter and stink of a desperate blood-slippy brawl. Then there had been the screeching steel agony over his belly, falling, darkness. It was hard to distinguish particular memories and impressions from the melee.

But perhaps there had been – not during, before – yes, there had been something.

“There were monks there,” he said quietly. He was better placed to recognise it than Dean, and when he said it, it crystallised in his mind with simple accuracy. “We were attacked by monks.”

Dean snorted. “See, if that'd been the kind of order you went off to join, me and Father would never have given you a problem.”

“There's more than one way to fight,” Sam said absently: an old battle and an old retort. He was right, that was right, but there was still something else nagging at him from behind the irritating vague veil of his later head injury.

“But there's no monks here but you,” Dean said with startlingly fake cheerfulness. “So we have time to work something out.”

“Yeah,” Sam muttered.

“So let's talk about you,” Dean said. Sam flinched away from the sudden foreboding, the stifled anger and fear in Dean's tone. “Let's talk about the things you said when you were sick. The things you dreamt.”

Sam swiftly considered and rejected pretending ignorance. He'd kept his secret, let it spread like poison within him, for long enough. Dean had a right to know, and there was a part of Sam that still clung childishly to the hope that merely telling Dean would be enough to solve everything.

“It started last year,” he said thinly. It was what he wanted, confession, but the words were hard to release anyway, like the demon had a grip on his throat it was slowly tightening. “Little dreams, flashes, to start, just ordinary things, but then they'd happen.” He smiled bitterly. “I thought at first – it's stupid, i know, but it didn't seem harmful. I thought, maybe this is it, maybe God's broken his silence.”

“Sam,” Dean said doubtfully.

“It's not that ridiculous,” Sam said defensively. “Not modest, no, but the Church canonises regularly.”

“It's not ridiculous,” Dean said. “But that was the start. It got worse?”

“Oh, yes,” Sam said, transported back to the first time he'd had a dream of terror and death, the shock and numbness he'd slowly begun to feel. “It started being terrible things. People being hurt, accidents, fires. A group of children drowned one winter, playing on the Ouse, I dreamed that.” He took a deep breath. “That was when – I'd been praying, desperately. I knew by then it was something, something evil. So I confessed it to my friend Brendan.”

“Brendan,” Dean said, evidently searching his memory, but Sam knew it was a name he'd never mentioned.

“He did in the fire,” Sam said starkly. “The yellow-eyed demon killed him.”

“The yellow-eyed demon?” Dean repeated. E sounded shocked but as Sam sneaked a glance at him he saw that Dean didn't look repulsed and the snide nagging worry inside himself eased. Dean wouldn't think of Sam as wrong, broken, even if Sam himself did.

He hid it all behind a shrug. “After a while, it was always dreams of the same man. Talking to me – telling me to do things, terrible things.”

“So you're not sure it's a demon,” Dean said, his voice taking on a questioning inflection. He was holding back: Sam appreciated it.

“I am,” Sam said simply. He'd known it couldn't be anything else. Devil-touched he might be, but he was a man of God still, and a Winchester, and he wouldn't turn away from painful truths. He waited quietly for Dean's reaction.

“Well,” Dean said. He cleared his throat. “We'll deal with it. But you have to tell me when you dream stuff from now on, Sam. We clear?”

“We're clear,” Sam said. He tilted his shoulders over slightly, careful of his still-healing side. Dean leaned over to meet him, and they sat that way for most of the afternoon. They had put each other in danger, and admitted it. Sam knew it would be ignored, not forgotten; that was the way of family, and it was fine.

* * *

For the next weeks there was always a part of Sam keeping an eagle eye on their interactions; to his relief, Dean didn't treat him appreciably differently, and for whole moments at a time Sam could allow himself to think that maybe things would turn out well. Dean asked Sam more questions when he thought of them and soon it seemed like just one more secret they had between them, encircling them closely together, and Sam's dutiful reporting of his vague, fretful dreams simply another part of their morning routine.

Finally, a couple of weeks after Christmas Day, Menabuoi approached them with the welcome information that they would reach Venice in only another two days. They had hardly anything to prepare, even many of the clothes they had begun with now threadbare and saltworn, but Dean retreated to their cabin enthusiastically and started to pack up. Sam knew he'd never quite reconciled himself to shipboard life, although he'd put on a show well enough.

The night before they were due to make landfall, the yellow-eyed demon returned to Sam's dreams.

“Sammy,” it greeted him. “You _are_ looking well.”

“Don't call me that,” Sam said, automatic and petty, but he was already on a crumbling cliff of control, and he had to have something. The demon chose to appear as a middle-aged man, grizzled and bearded, with rounded but strong shoulders: not much like Sam's father, until he had the thought, and then the resemblance taunted itself at him every time his angle on the demon changed.

“Sam, my boy, then,” it said jovially. “Nice trip you're taking. Lovely place, Venice. Have a drink at Harold's for me.”

“You''ll stay away from me,” Sam retorted, but he was already floundering. It was his dream, his mind; even the scene was his, a busy market day in Parliament Street with the vendors and customers insubstantial ghosts around the startling colour of the demon's wasp eyes. But the demon seemed to fill everything around it with a yawning hopelessness, like nothing good could touch it, no god be where it was.

“Of course I will,” the demon said mockingly. “If you want me to. Do you want me to, Sam? Really?”

“Yes, I do,” Sam said, and what felt like iron conviction in his head was a pale refusal up against the burning acrid yellow of the demon's eyes.

“You were such a nice boy, going up to the Abbey,” the demon said reflectively. Sam lost his breath. He'd never thought the demon had been upon him so long as that; he'd never had a sign. Had he? He tried to remember, to re-examine his every choice and feeling, but everything at the time had seemed so sensible – he'd been so sure- “So confident you were going to be more than that tiresome father and feeble brother of yours could offer you.”

Sam raised his hand, but the demon cocked an eyebrow at him and it was like he'd never made any movement, couldn't make any movement the demon hadn't planned for.

The demon went on, confidingly, “Well, here you go, Sam! Here's the prize – you can!” He spread his eyes and beamed at Sam with strangely gleaming sharp teeth. “Want to know how?”

“No,” Sam said, as flat and toneless as he could make it. Something in the demon seemed to speak directly to something in Sam, something that wanted _out_. He called to mind his father with a sword in his hand, patiently teaching he and Dean; Dean's idle rambling slowing into even breaths in the cabin nearby; the incense in his mouth and the Eucharist on his tongue, filling him with exultation. “I don't know what you want, but I'm not going to be it. No.”

He expected – he didn't know. Anger, perhaps. To be forced; to be convinced. He didn't expect the demon to wink and purr, “We'll see, won't we?”

He didn't quite expect to wake up; but he did, and Dean was shaking him and saying in an excited, young voice, that the Arsenale, the great shipyards of the Serenissima, were in sight.

* * *

Sam could see that Dean would have liked to keep him away from their father's contacts in Venice, but Sam insisted on his superior language skills, threw in a show of baby-brother nervousness when Dean still looked stubborn, and won his presence in the meeting. He had been surprised, and somewhat impressed, to learn that John had friends even so far afield as Venice, but it was a republic with considerable military power; perhaps it wasn't strange that John knew some of its denizens.

John's friend Elena lived with her daughter Giovanna on the north side of the islands, facing out to the lagoon. It took them some time to get anywhere in Venice, to Sam's frustration: even after so long aship Dean had turned a delicate shade of green when faced with the small traghetto gondolas that took standing passengers straight across the Grand Canal and flatly refused to even make the attempt. Only one (??) bridge crossed the sinuous curves of Venice's main throughfare, and to reach it every time they wished to cross took some time, especially when they invariably became lost searching for it.

(“Sophia would have managed the bridges,” Dean had complained.

There were no horses in Venice, no carts or cabs, only the glossy-sleek black gondolas, which Dean wouldn't try. Sam had said, “Shut your mouth, Dean.”)

Sam liked Elena as soon as they entered her small inn, shabby but sturdy, with a clientele that looked at the opened door with instant death in its eyes and relaxed away when they saw Sam and Dean. He could see that Dean liked her too, and liked her all the more when his brother's standard leer met perfectly pursed lips and challengingly flounced skirts.

She spoke in the rapid, smooth Venetian dialect, “What can I do for you, boys?”

Sam understood, but he wasn't fluent himself, since his plans to become so with the captain and crew had been delayed by events. He ordered drinks to break the tension, responding in Latin, with as much of the influence of Dante's Florentine language as he could manage. He was gratified when she continued the conversation in her own language, making it perfectly clear she understood him better than he understood her. When he checked with Dean, a matter of a quick glance, his face was tight with concentration: he would follow their conversation well enough, then, but not participate, that was fine.

“I'm Sam, this is my brother Dean,” he introduced them, after some small pleasantries had been exchanged to everyone's satisfaction. She looked blank; he added, “Of Winchester,” as discreetly as possible. She was too experienced to allow herself to be disconcerted: she gave a only slow blink, and looked past them, and then a slim blonde girl stepped up behind them and showed them politely but firmly into a small stockroom.

“John Winchester's boys,” Elena said when she joined them, surveying them both; Sam was surprised to hear her use their own English tongue, but Dean was evidently pleased to be able to take part and she spoke with a attractively mellifluous accent. “I'll ask again, what brings you here? He's well, isn't he?”

Sam exchanged a look with his brother. “We're not sure, madam,” Dean said. “We're looking for him. His contacts in London told us here.”

Her gaze went sharp. “And you came by ship, was it? So you've had no news for some time.”

Dean went rigid beside Sam and he stepped in to cover his brother's sudden fear at her words. “No, none. If there's anything you know that might help us...” he didn't specify what they thought might be happening, hoping the woman might know enough to give them a new direction for the story, or at least corroborate the one they already had.

“You're the youngest, the one who took orders?” she said thoughtfully, looking at Sam. He nodded a perfunctory assent and she sighed and said, “He's been excommunicated. Word came from Rome a couple of months back. They knew he'd been here, all right. We've just been waiting to hear, ever since.”

Excommunicated. Thrown out of the church, thrown down from God; their angry, imperfect, loving father. Sam was vaguely aware that his face had gone slack with shock and upset, and then Dean's hand was on his shoulder, a heavy apology before he was pushing Sam just behind him and taking over the conversation.

“And us?” Dean said. Sam didn't think Elena would be able to hear the sour underbelly of his tone, but it was stark to Sam; even to Dean, it meant something.

“Nothing,” Elena said, and allowed the 'yet' to hang oppressively in the midst of the conversation.

“Do you know what he was looking for?” Dean said urgently, stupidly, but it was out before Sam could pull himself together enough to add anything of use. They couldn't trust the woman, but they might as well because they could not trust anyone, not with their father sullied, his good name trampled, and their own sins behind them.

She hesitated, then answered, although it seemed torn from her: “He left it with Marco. Now, boys, are you in need of lodgings?”

“No,” Dean said, already turning to Sam to see if he understood.

Sam shrugged. Elena said, “Good,” and Giovanna was opening the door of the cupboard to show them out and away.

* * *

“Are you all right?” Dean demanded, when they were what felt like a safe distance from Elena's establishment.

“Of course,” Sam lied. He felt disconnected and odd, and had no doubt he was pale and sickly-looking. It wouldn't really matter to Dean, he thought with a stab of pain and resentment. He'd never grasped faith as Sam had; he wouldn't understand what it meant for their father's soul.

“You don't look all right,” Dean said frankly.

“I don't want to talk about it,” Sam said. He deliberately lengthened his stride so it would be awkward for Dean to keep up.

“Do you know a Marco?” Dean said. “I don't know anyone Father knows named Marco. It's have to be someone he trusts, for him to leave-”

“I don't know,” Sam insisted, trying his best to produce a tone that could slam the door shut on the conversation. It felt like a death, already; he was heartsick over their father and he couldn't bear to listen to Dean talk about him like nothing was different.

As they walked back to their latest lodgings Dean kept up a monologue of his impressions of the city, the grand stretching walls and building work, the disdainful people they passed on the street, elegant and lazy in their confidence in their city. There was a tone of genuine enjoyment in his words and Sam wished he could appreciate it.

“I'm stopping here for a while,” he said as they passed the church of the Frari.

“You're sure?” Dean said, but he was already making as if to enter. Sam threw an arm out to stop him and Dean gave him a steady warning look.

“Just me,” Sam said.

“We're not splitting up,” Dean said belligerently.

“It's not a request,” Sam snapped. He walked in and swerved left, straight for the altar, his body folding automatically down to kneel in supplication. Dean would get bored long before he did.

He had to fight himself to reach the soft place in his mind, the place where he sometimes felt the most overwhelming connection to God he knew. Living in the world had made so many distractions; he fell into sadness at the parts of himself he'd neglected, and had to dismiss that as a distraction too. Even his breathing was rapid and sobbing, and he concentrated on modulating it, on making his body a mere receptacle.

This was what their father had lost, the chance of glory; what he had broken from, in the final step of a path he had been walking since their childhood. It made him less in Sam's eyes, he couldn't help it, and he felt lessened himself, to be his father's son.

He reached calmness, eventually, but not peace. A rent had opened within himself, and filled with confusion and fear that remained uncomforted as he knelt and prayed in the way that had once given him all things.

Dean had gone when Sam rose, as he expected. When he walked outside he found a deep grey fog had descended over the city, thick enough to obscure the square and the small canal that bordered it. It was very early, a thin sun beginning to tilt lukewarm through the matting fog. The city felt and sounded deserted and cold.

Sam didn't really know where to go, the fog disrupting his sense of direction in the already labyrinthine city. He heard footsteps and turned towards them, blindly, alert to the sudden dread that the yellow eyes would leer any moment out of the fog.

He called out a defiant greeting in Venetian; he heard a response in impeccable, accentless Church Latin. He didn't recognise the man who stepped out, short and greying and non-descript, until the man's figure became clearer out of the fog and some sense memory of the man's graceful movements recalled Sam to the attack in Dover.

He had no weapon, and the man had already proved himself both an adept fighter and willing to set upon two men with greater numbers. Sam backed up swiftly, getting the stone of the church at his back, and tensed, trying not to show how the previous injuries were still affecting him.

“Samuel of Winchester,” the man said softly. He came closer, stopping a polite distance from Sam, his hands spread artlessly. “You may relax.”

“I don't think I will,” Sam said. He stared at the man, fitting things together with his washed-out memory. He added, “Brother.”

The man smiled and inclined his head. “Yes. You're known to be clever, Samuel. That's why you and your brother were allowed to live.”

“A blade to the guts is an interesting interpretation of 'allowed to live',” Sam said mildly.

“You're young, strong,” the man said dismissively. “And up and about now, I see. We really did think that you already possessed the item. Of course I apologise for any over-enthusiasm on the part of some of my men. Hired help, you know.”

“We still don't have the item,” Sam said snidely.

“At least you recognise there is an item to be acquired, which I daresay is an improvement,” the man said dryly.

“Find yourself a merchant, then,” Sam snapped. Anger was a pleasant refuge; he settled into it and glared at the man. “My brother and I are not included in your damned hired help.”

The man smiled and Sam was abruptly reminded of the fantastic creatures they painted into the scrolls at the abbey, in jewel colours and sharp black lines, all smooth pelts and sharp teeth. He had moved closer to Sam without Sam really noticing. When he spoke, he sounded low and persuasive. “Would you like to be?”

“What?” Sam said.

“As you realised earlier, I am a servant of God, like you,” the man said, speaking precisely. “And I am a servant of Mother Church. Quite important parts of it, in fact. And they have empowered me to offer you your place back, in St Mary's at York, without question or difficulty.”

He paused. Sam had come to accept the loss of that part of his life, but then there was the demon, and his father's excommunication... Sam shifted back against the stone and said, “Go on.” His voice rasped.

“It's a very simple offer,” the man said. “You retrieve the item your father stole, and return it to me as a representative of the Church, its rightful home. And in payment, I will return you to the Church.”

“And my brother?” Sam whispered.

“He won't be harmed,” the man said magnanimously. “No offence, Samuel, but Dean is a rather low sort of person. He can do what he likes.”

“And the alternative?” Sam said.

The man gave a thoughtful frown. “I hadn't thought about that yet.” He fixed Sam with a piercing gaze; Sam straightened up to his full height reflexively, but the man only smiled again, tolerantly. “You did take vows, you know. I trust that you will remember them.”

The fog hadn't lifted, and the man seemed to find it the work of a moment to fade into them. He was gone before Sam could make an answer, even if he'd known what answer he intended to make.

* * *

“Where the fuck have you been?” Dean yelled before Sam was even through the door of their meagre lodgings.

“You know where I've been,” Sam said. He sat on the one chair offered by the room and hung his head. He hadn't slept, and he'd paced what had felt like half of the city searching for the inn, his father's excommunication and the strange man's offer heavy and demanding on his mind. His wounds had begun to ache and he was tired.

“All this time?” Dean said, and Sam had a fleeting fear that he knew, somehow – what if the man had approached Dean, offered him something else? He ought to ask, he ought to tell Dean exactly what had happened, not least to point out that Dean's ridiculous theory about the Templars had been wrong. There was no secret, heretical sect after them: only the Church herself. But something stopped him, and he had to admit to himself that he was considering the offer, and knew very well that Dean would think badly of him for it.

“You don't understand, do you?” he said instead. “Father's been excommunicated, Dean, do you know what that means?”

“It means no more having to confess to crap he doesn't regret,” Dean said, and Sam could tell just how furious he was from the carelessness of it. Of course Dean wasn't religious, not the way Sam was, but he'd never used it as a weapon before. “It means no more hauling his arse to Mass to hear a priest with the morals of the cheapest whore on the street, it means-”

“It means hell!” Sam shouted. He surged up and Dean fell away a pace, although his glare met Sam's perfectly for fierceness and hurt. “No peace, no grace, no respite anywhere he goes in Christendom. It means losing _everything_ , Dean, why don't you know that?”

“It's not everything,” Dean said, and his voice and gaze were absolutely flat and hard. “Not to me, and not to him.”

“No,” Sam said. “It never was – Mother was everything to him, and he let the family be everything to you. There's more, Dean, there's got to be more to life than this.”

“Why?” Dean said. “This is what there is, right here, all we can do is just live, Sam, you always think there's something _better_ -”

“There is,” Sam said, quiet and certain now. “I've felt it, I know there is.”

“That's _you_ ,” Dean said vehemently. “It's not some, some damn thing, you just want to be like everybody else, you always did!”

“And you always wanted to be just like Father,” Sam threw at him. “And I didn't, so nothing I ever did was good enough.”

“Yeah, so you left the first damn minute you could-”

“What, and he didn't?” Sam yelled. “Where is he now, Dean?”

“So go back!” Dean answered. He was flushed red, his eyes glittering. He hardly ever lost his temper so badly, not with Sam, but it couldn't act as a check on Sam right now.

“I've had an offer!” Sam yelled, and the room froze. Dean's face crumpled for the briefest of moments, enough for him to know Sam had seen. “Dean,” Sam said, more calmly, but he didn't dare to reach out, and Dean had spun around and rushed from the room before he could begin to think of an explanation, leaving Sam alone.

* * *

It didn't take long for the room to become oppressive. The building was old, wooden beams exposed and tired, in a built-up area that threw their first-floor room into permanent shadow. They weren't in sight of one of the countless smaller canals but the city had a year-round dredging project to keep the waterways open, and the stink a couple of blocks over pervaded the room.

Sam walked out into the city, but he couldn't take any pleasure from it. Before the Abbey he'd read the memoirs of Marco Polo, and loved the descriptions of the traveller's home city, but he could only find a dull interest in himself now, alone and angry, and rapidly getting lost.

* Sam goes for walk to clear head – piazza – finds the grail in the basilica where john left it. It doesn't look impressive – sam wonders what he's dedicated his life to. *

* * *

Sam was long returned by the time Dean came back. He had been sitting in quiet contemplation for some time. Not of the Grail, which was still inconsequential-looking and quiescent. Of what it meant, what Sam was doing: what he had made of his life, and what of the future.

“Hello,” he said, watching Dean. Was he in drink? There was something off about him, as if he fit wrongly into his skin. Perhaps he was still angry. He muttered a greeting, but he wouldn't look Sam in the eye.

“Dean,” Sam said, using the imploring tone that usually drew a reaction from Dean in spite of himself.

“What?” Dean said ungraciously. He dropped heavily onto the low bedframe.

“We should talk,” Sam said softly, trying to convey that he didn't want to fight again, although he could feel the first stirrings of annoyance at Dean's attitude. At least Sam was trying.

“I'm not stopping you,” Dean said.

Sam pursed his lips, since Dean's head was mashed into the blankets and wouldn't catch him. “Fine. I want to say sorry about before.” He left the revelation about the Grail for now; it might only incite Dean again, set them on another turn of Sam's religion and their father.

“Fine,” Dean said, but he didn't complain about Sam's desire to discuss what had happened, unusually.

“Dean,” Sam said, allowing some impatience to creep through. “Will you look at me, please?”

Dean sighed deeply into his blankets, but he rolled up in a single smooth motion. Sam watched in bewilderment as he started to pace the small room, picking things up with interminable restless motion.

“What's wrong?” he appealed.

Dean trailed his fingers across the scarred wooden table and Sam watched as it rocked on its mismatched legs. “What offer?” Dean said, and Sam tore his gaze up to Dean's in embarrassment.

“What?”

“I said, what offer,” Dean repeated. The menace underlying his tone was familiar; being the target of it was not. “You said you'd had an offer. What did you mean?”

“To return to the Order,” Sam said quietly. He stared at Dean as calmly as he could. He didn't want to tell his brother he was leaving again, didn't want to threaten Dean with that, but he was not an adjunct of his family, and he would be honest about considering his options.

“How lovely,” Dean said, and his lips curved into a mocking smile that sent a shiver of dread down Sam's spine. He stared at Dean again, with cold eyes, looking not for drunkenness, but for soullessness.

He stood up slowly. Dean looked him over sharply and gave a cruel laugh, and when his gaze again met Sam's his eyes were a gleaming poisonous yellow.

Sam was reciting the Pater Noster before any part of him registered the intent, his mind jumping to protection and habit. It only made the demon laugh.

“That's not bad, Sam,” he said. He pretended to clap in slow mocking rhythm. “Good reflexes, I like that.”

“Get out,” Sam said. It was barely more than a breath, but the demon heard and pretended to consider it, cocking an eyebrow. Sam wondered with disgust how he could ever have mistaken it for Dean, how he hadn't seen the harsh angle of its smirk and sharp movements. He searched desperately for any sign of his brother under the demon's occupation, and grasped at comfort in not finding any by choosing to believe Dean was safe inside, not ruined and torn apart by the demon's presence.

“I don't think so,” the demon said, twisting Dean's voice into an approximation of 'reasonable' he would never have used himself. “The other side got to make their offer, I get to make mine.” He made a little face of sympathy. “That's the arrangement.”

“You don't have an arrangement with me,” Sam said, fighting to keep his voice from trembling. “You get out of my brother.”

“Make me,” the demon said cheerfully. “You can listen up, Sam my boy, and maybe I'll give him back shiny clean when I'm finished. Or you can draw this out.”

He didn't have anything to bargain with; only himself. “I'll listen,” he said. He sat slowly in the chair. The Grail was still there on the table, and a half-empty ewe pitcher, and he groped for them to pour himself water. It didn't taste of anything special.

“Here's the thing,” the demon said confidingly. He sat opposite from Sam and splayed his – Dean's – hands on the table, strong and weatherworn with their ragged nails. “I've got plans for you. Now, I can get to you in an Abbey, you know that. But it's, hmm. It's not as convenient as I'd like.”

“What plans?” Sam said.

The demon gave a smug grin; not an expression unknown to Dean's face, but the demon made it obscene. “No need to worry your pretty little head over that, Sam. You won't mind them by the time they come to pass.”

“And what do I get?” Sam said. “For going along with your offer.”

The demon shrugged. “The usual things. Money, power, women. If you can remember what to do with them.”

“And if I don't want them?” Sam said.

“I can sweeten the pot,” the demon said. Something in his face changed subtly, and it was Dean in his own face, before the demon spoke again. “Nice body, this one. You really want to say goodbye to your family again, Sam? I can give you a permanent one. Sad end for your brother.”

“Threatening my brother won't make me join you,” Sam said, with difficulty; his mouth was dry with fear and his hands curled into claws in his lap.

“I think it will,” the demon said. He patted down his clothing, miming surprise when he came up with a knife. It didn't look like much, the blade small and parchment-thin, but Sam knew full well that Dean's blades were never ready to do less than kill. The demon set the blade against Dean's wrist and gave Sam a grin that showed his teeth.

“No, please,” Sam said, reaching out. He would beg, if it would only give him time to think, another moment where Dean was safe. It obviously wasn't worried that hurting Dean would affect itself. The demon smirked and made the knife disappear again, and Sam sat back and pretended to think about the offer, thousands of codexes running over his mind's eye, looking for anything he'd ever scribed about demon lore.

There wasn't much; but there had been exorcists in York parish. Sam had joined them on their work twice, when they needed a large man to help with the afflicted. It was a branch of the Church he'd stayed away from; perhaps somewhere he'd seen in himself an echo of what they fought against, what the yellow-eyed demon saw.

But he'd seen enough. The use of the cross; prayer; holy water.

The Grail was still the characterless cup it had been in the basilica, battered and old. But it was real, and it was sacred. Sam picked it up, trying to calm his trembling fingers. Sam poured all his certainty and questions and hope into it; along with the water he then offered to the demon invading his brother's body.

He drank deeply, yellow gaze on Sam's, and smirked as he lowered the cup.

It hadn't worked. Sam had been so sure-

The demon threw Dean's head back unnaturally and screamed, vomiting a thick black essence that filled the room with rage and hate, surrounding Sam and leaching all goodness from the world. He had a moment of pure wrenching despair and then it began to dissipate, undramatically, shredding into nothingness. Sam watched it until it was gone, and then Dean collapsed to the floor.

“Dean!” Sam yelled and scrambled over to his brother, heart hammering out terror against his chest. He rolled Dean over carefully. His nose was bleeding sluggishly and as Sam wiped it away he felt the faint brush of Dean's breath against his hand. Clumsy with relief, he put his hand under Dean's head and tilted him back, barely hearing himself saying Dean's name, begging for a response, until Dean snorted and knocked Sam's hands away irritably.

“What?” he said peevishly, and opened his eyes on blessed clear green. Sam gulped back a sob and hauled himself to his feet, stumbling onto one of the pallets and hiding his face in his hands.

“Sam,” he heard Dean say, worried and _normal_ , and then a hand glancing lightly over his head. “Come on. It's over.” He put a hand gingerly on Sam's back, and rubbed in little circles when Sam didn't protest. “You're safe, Sammy.”

“You're safe,” Sam echoed. He turned to Dean in sudden need and Dean let Sam stare at him greedily, chasing any hint of the demon's yellow eyes and mocking poses. “Dean-”

He smiled and knocked Sam's hand off his arm with reassuring casualness, and Sam understood that they wouldn't talk about it until Dean felt sure he could. “I'm fine,” he said. “You did well. That's the Grail, isn't it? Smart stuff, little brother.”

“Learned from the best,” Sam said.

“That's what I keep telling you,” Dean grinned at him, shakily but unbowed. “So,” he said. He got up and moved around for a moment, aimless, and then he busied himself retrieving a battered parchment map from his pack and spreading it over one of the bedrolls. He was moving too stiffly, with unnatural control, but Sam appreciated his need to carry on as normal. “I think Father would have moved out of Europe,” he said, flicking his gaze up to check Sam's reaction. “So, I'm going to keep on going. Keep looking.”

“All right,” Sam said quietly.

“I suppose the Grail is yours now,” Dean offered. “You can, I don't know. I suppose somebody'd take you in with it. Rome, even.”

“Probably,” Sam agreed.

“And you can hide, keep the Templars away” Dean said. He was tapping his fingers restlessly on the map, and his gaze kept skittering off Sam's.

“I forgot to tell you,” Sam said. “It isn't the Templars.”

“Well, that's good,” Dean said. “That's a load off, right?”

“Yeah, no,” Sam said breezily. He still felt uncertain but Dean was safe, and Sam was free of the yellow-eyed demon, even though it would take some time to feel the absence. “It's the Church.”

“Great,” Dean said, sounding a little dazed. “That's fine. No problem. I can handle that.”

He was matching Sam's casual tone but his gaze was slow to meet Sam's, and when it did Dean looked wary and guarded and hopeful.

“We can handle it,” Sam said.

He smiled at his brother, clear and easy. Dean smiled back, and turned around the map so Sam could see the route they would take, together.

* * * END * * *


End file.
